The Life of a Dead Man
by highflyer101
Summary: 93 days, 3 hours, 15 minutes, and 6 seconds. That was how long it had been since Sherlock Holmes forged dozens of government documents, dyed his hair blonde, and recreated himself as Arthur Nichols, a superbly ordinary young man living in Scotland. And he still had nothing on Moriarty. Until he finds himself an assistant of sorts: a girl by the name of Ainsley Boyd. S/OC
1. Prologue

**A/N: Woohoo, first Sherlock fic! Sorry if it's a bit boring; it's just the prologue. This takes place immediately after the end of Reichenbach Falls, so like 3 months after Sherlock 'died'. Hope you like it and please please please review!**

93 days, 3 hours, 15 minutes, and 6 seconds.

That was exactly how long it had been since Sherlock Holmes was pronounced dead. That was exactly how long it had been since Sherlock Holmes forged dozens of government documents, dyed his hair blonde, and recreated himself as Arthur Nichols, a superbly ordinary young man living and working _(ugh) _in Scotland.

That was also how long it had been since he had been consumed with boredom.

He had known his entire life that it must be insufferable to be average, but now that he was playing the part, it seemed more painful than ever. It was unimaginable that anyone could find this sort of existence at all satisfying. Yet all these silly little people puttering about, telling stories about their mundane lives, seemed genuinely _happy._ It was disgusting, to say the least.

His lip curled just thinking about it. Usually he could suffer silently, ignore the pulsing rage inside him, but at the moment it was inescapable. How could it not be? After making the risky trip to London and watching his best - and only - friend cry at his grave, Sherlock only pined for his old life more. But of course, it would be impossible to return now. Despite looking desperately for three months, he'd found no proof at all that Moriarty ever existed, nothing but his own jumbled memories.

Even more infuriated as his thoughts rolled on, he began mercilessly pushing people out of his path, carving a way home. After spending quite some time in dodgy youth hostels and homeless shelters, he'd finally managed to find himself a reasonably priced flat embedded deep in Edinburgh. It was almost directly next to the famed university, and obviously aimed towards young students looking for a place of their own. Still, it worked quite well for his purposes. Given that most of the residents were young and held regular parties, no one ever questioned the occasional explosions his experiments resulted in. And it wasn't too far away from his work, which was nice.

_Work. _Yes, work, that was where he was supposed to be just then. Working for the moronic police department as a forensic scientist, as though he couldn't have solved every single one of their cases in ten seconds flat. They'd have his hide for leaving without warning, but it didn't matter. Even they recognized his value to the 'team'.

Which gave him plenty of time to go home and vent his anger (i.e. destroy something). The prospect gave him a miniscule glimmer of happiness, if you could call it that. At the very least, he felt slightly less murderous than two seconds previously.

Finally, he made his way through the crush of people to his building. The front door swung open without a key (a quirk which the landlord promised to fix regularly) and Sherlock bounded up the stairs, dodging the various students heading down them. With a grateful sigh, he threw open his door and yanked an old riding crop off the counter. Almost immediately, he proceeded to whip a human arm he kept stored in his fridge. A tiny smile broke his face.

Somethings may have changed, but this never would.

* * *

About two hours later, Sherlock emerged from his apartment, feeling as refreshed as possible. Still not entirely thrilled by the prospect of going to work, he strolled languidly through the streets, lighting a cigarette as he went. John would have killed him if he were there, but wasn't that the point? John _wasn't _there. Nobody was.

Eventually he found himself wandering into the lab, where, as expected, his so-called superiors were waiting not-so-patiently for his arrival. Indifferent as ever, he whisked past them and began sliding samples into his microscope.

"Nichols," the DI snarled. Oscar Jenkins was a bumbling, shockingly incompetent man whose one pleasure in life was cake. He was married, although the relationship had gone downhill in recent months - his wife was caught cheating. They were staying together for the sake of the children, who had no idea anything had gone awry as of yet. (Jenkins, of course, would be horrified if he knew Sherlock knew something so personal about him.)

"Yes?" Sherlock replied coolly, zooming in on the germs.

"Are you aware that you were gone two days without so much as a call?"

"So?"

"S-so?" Jenkins repeated, a vein in his forehead pulsing. "So you have a responsibility to be here! That's what a job means! You can't just come and go as you please!"

"Can't I?" (Just because Sherlock no longer solved crimes, didn't mean he was any more polite than he had been before.)

"No! You can't."

"Well, fire me then," he challenged, smirking.

"W-what? You... You want me to _fire you?" _Jenkins sputtered.

"What I want is of little consequence. However, I have grossly broken the common rules of the workplace, as you so eloquently pointed out. That being said, I can only assume that you wish to fire me." Jenkins shifted his eyes around the lab before leaning in closer.

"Look, Arthur, you're one of our best men, much as I hate to admit it." He paused and dropped his voice even lower. "We can't afford to get rid of you just now, but if you want to carry on here, you'll have to clean up your act." Just as Sherlock had thought. He tried his very best to look contrite.

"Of course, Jenkins."

"I'm glad that's clear, then." He started to waddle away before turning around one more time. "And those last two days are coming out of your pay," he warned.

"Understood." With some effort, Sherlock fought back a biting insult. Keeping him on was probably the smartest thing Jenkins had done in his entire lifetime, although that didn't really mean much. Jenkins was possibly even more stupid than Anderson, so one could argue that an ape made more intelligent decisions on a regular basis. Spending the smallest amount of time with him made Sherlock yearn even more for John's, or even Lestrade's, company.

"Soon enough," he murmured to himself, swapping the sample under his lens. "Soon enough."

**A/N: Sorry if that sucked. It will get more interesting soon, so please stick around! I'd love to hear what you thought of it, too ;) **


	2. Chapter One

If there was anything Sherlock hated about his new life more than his job, it was subjecting himself to menial chores like grocery shopping. In the past, it was always John's responsibility to buy food, whether he liked it or not. At the very least, Mrs. Hudson could easily be cajoled into brewing some tea. But now, with no one to do his bidding for him, Sherlock was forced to go out into the world and interact with the morons it gave home to.**  
**

He'd grown quite good at avoiding the task over the months, but unless he fancied a meal of minced fingers and ears, the time had come for him to brave the streets once again. With a huff, he tugged on his coat: a short, black, double-breasted jacket, with no dramatic collar like his old one. He didn't think it suited him very well, but an ill-fitting coat was better than being noticed by one of Moriarty's puppets.

As could be expected for Scotland, there was a slight chill in the air. A cool breeze ruffled Sherlock's unnaturally blond hair and crept under his tightly fastened jacket. Edinburgh really wasn't too cold on a regular basis, yet today the weather was brisk enough to make Sherlock stop outside a cafe and pull out his lighter and a cigarette. He hadn't smoked since yesterday morning, which was really quite impressive, considering how incredibly bored he was, and he was finally succumbing to the temptation. He held the lit cigarette in his mouth for a moment, enjoying the distinct warmth the tobacco sent through his body. _Ah, glorious._ If anything good had come out of leaving 221B, it was without a doubt the freedom to smoke. At least when Sherlock was living on his own, John couldn't insist on him wearing those damned nicotine patches.

"Sorry, but could you not?" someone snapped as he exhaled. Sherlock froze, mentally assessing the voice. Woman. Probably in late twenties. Scottish, but that was no surprise. They were in Scotland, after all. Clearly rather outspoken, almost to the point of being rude. And there was the slightest chance she would actually prove to be interesting.

Slowly, very slowly, he spun around to face her. She was perhaps a little younger than he thought, though not by much - 26 at the youngest. John probably would have considered her pretty, with her rich auburn hair and hazel-grey eyes. She didn't seem to be bothered by the cold. All she wore was a cozy-looking red and blue flannel shirt, skinny jeans, and a pair of tan leather combat boots. Definitely a bit of a rebel, judging by the appalled look her sister was sending her.

"Excuse me?" he sneered, popping the cigarette back in his mouth to prove a point. Her frown deepened.

"I said, _could you not do that," _she growled. "I don't know if you're blind as well as deaf, but my sister over here is pregnant. She definitely doesn't need to be inhaling those fumes."

Sherlock took the opportunity to take a longer look at the sister. She was older, definitely, and about six months along. A glance at her ring finger told him there was no husband, nor had there ever been. In fact, going on the redhead's fierce protectiveness of her, there was probably nobody special at all; at least, not anymore. Chances were that the news of the baby had scared away the father. It was a sad situation, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to feel to bad about it. He turned back to the first woman.

"Might I suggest you sit inside?" Sherlock smiled coldly.

"Might I suggest you stop sucking on that death stick?" she shot back, mimicking his deep voice. He glowered at her for a moment before reaching into his pocket for one of the many police IDs he'd nicked from Jenkins.

"Sorry Miss...?"

"Boyd," she finished.

"Ah. As I was saying, I'm sorry Miss Boyd but as Detective Inspector Oscar Jenkins, it's my duty to inform you that you have no right to be harassing me in this way." He waved an ID in front of her face and watched with satisfaction as her jaw dropped. He did love beating people. But then-

"Do you think I'm daft?" she demanded suddenly. Sherlock's proud expression faltered.

"What?" he sputtered.

"I've seen Jenkins in the papers and on the news, and let me tell you, you're. Not. Him." Now it was her turn to smirk triumphantly. "Now why don't you run along before I call the police on you for being a pickpocket?"

Sherlock was quite sure he was going to pass out. He'd used Lestrade's ID countless times in England and not one person ever called him on it. In fact, he'd used Jenkins' ID countless times here, too, for little things like this. She would need to be quite clever to question a move as bold as that. Quite clever indeed. Without really being conscious of what he was doing, he stomped out the light on his cigarette.

"It's awfully smart of you to pick up on that," he mused. "Very observant." She snorted.

"I could get you arrested right now, and that's what you're thinking about?"

"Oh, but you won't get me arrested," Sherlock answered without skipping a beat. "I saw the way your left hand twitched just now; it's an empty threat. You don't want to get involved with the police, because you associate some kind of negative experience with them. Perhaps - oh, yes, of course! You've been arrested yourself, haven't you?" Sherlock grinned manically; it'd been forever since he'd allowed himself to deduce like this, and he wasn't about to stop now.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the woman said stoically.

"Yes, you do!" Sherlock protested. "That's how you know what Jenkins looks like; that's why you don't want to phone them! All you want to do is get me away from your sister so you can finish your coffee and then go home and finish writing your book."

_"Book?"_ she repeated, awed.

"Yes, book!" At her confused face, Sherlock pouted. "Oh, must I go through the whole process? It's so tedious."

"I get the feeling that you don't mind showing off a bit," she retorted stonily. He cracked a small smile.

"Very well," he agreed. "Really, it was plain to see. You've bags under your eyes, so you stayed up late last night, possibly all night. Were you partying? Maybe, but unlikely; someone who's spent the night drinking is rarely up for coffee at 9 AM the next morning. So, what were you doing? Just couldn't sleep? Your posture says otherwise, that and the fact that you've rubbed the back of your neck at least five times in this conversation. That suggests you were sitting up last night and bending over something. But what? A computer or book is possible, but there's ink on your hands, so you were writing. No modern pen would use that ink, though, so you were probably using a typewriter and ended up writing so much that you needed to change the ribbon. This means you're writing something of great length, but it's certainly not something for work: no company would accept a report written on a typewriter. Obviously it's not a blog, so what else could it be? A novel. And, judging by your present facial expression, I would be completely correct in every one of these deductions."

"Dear Lord!" The pregnant sister interjected for the first time. "Ainsley, he's got it all right!" The woman - Ainsley - closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Yes, Elsie, I noticed that," she managed through gritted teeth. Her eyes flashed open and she took a step towards Sherlock. "Who the hell are you?" she hissed. Sherlock smiled.

"Sh-" He stopped himself before giving away too much. Just because he was acting like things were back to normal, didn't mean they were. "Arthur Nichols."

"No, you're not," Ainsley whispered, studying his face.

"How on earth could you tell that?" Sherlock found himself subconsciously lowering his volume to match her's. Her eyes gleamed as a sly smile found it's way onto her face.

"Same way you knew I wouldn't call the police," she shrugged. "Your left hand twitched." She paused, watching the information sink in.

"Elsa?" she called, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. "You finished with your coffee?" Her sister stood up with a nod. Ainsley looked back one last time before whisking away.

"See you around, Arthur Nichols," she winked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps you will, Ainsley Boyd."

**A/N: Thoughts? Do you like Ainsley? Do you like the story in general? (Please say yes.) As always, thanks for reading and pleeeaaasseeeee review!**


	3. Chapter Two

_Boyd._

It wasn't that uncommon of a surname, which made Sherlock's task about 100 times more difficult. The Edinburgh Police Station documented loads of people named Boyd, all taken in for petty crime. The only thing that made the task tolerable was that Sherlock was a genius. That, and the fact that however many Boyd's there were, there weren't too many Ainsley's.

Lazily, he scrolled through Jenkins' computer files. It had been almost effortless to break through the police's security system and now he had all the information he needed under his fingertips. He kept his eyes peeled for the fiery redhead's name as he searched. _Boyd, Aaron; Boyd, Abigail; Boyd, Adeline; Boyd, Adrian; Boyd, Ainsley._ A triumphant smile slid onto his face. Without any reservations at all, he clicked on her name and scanned her information.

Predictably, she was arrested for trespassing onto a grumpy neighbor's land. She served no jail time and was simply ordered to a few hours of community service. The infraction had taken place a few years ago and was probably long forgotten by the police. Sherlock's lips twitched downwards. The incident hardly even left a mark on her permanent record, so why was Ainsley so hesitant about calling the police? The logical assumption would be that she was hiding something. Something had obviously been overlooked in her case, and she was terrified that someone would notice it if she drew anymore attention to herself...

Now more intrigued than ever, Sherlock jotted down the phone number listed. Ainsley was not nearly as fascinating as the cases he was used to, but she was something. Besides, beggars couldn't be choosers. With a final click, he signed out of the database and tucked his notes into his pocket. If he was correct (and he almost certainly was), someone was going to be entering the room in 5, 4, 3, 2...

"Arthur? What are you doing in here? Why aren't you at the lab?"

Maisie Welles, a pint-sized sergeant, materialized beside him. He groaned internally. It wasn't that she was particularly stupid that made her insufferable (although she was). It was that she was so annoyingly nice to everyone she met. You could kill her puppy and she'd still offer you a cup of tea. At least Donavon made things a little interesting.

"Nothing, nothing," Sherlock excused himself. "I came to drop off some results and wandering into the wrong room while looking for the loo. My mistake."

"It can be quite confusing here," she sympathized. "Do you want me to show you where it is?"

"Where what is?" he grunted.

"The loo." She frowned.

"Oh. The loo. Thank you, but I am quite capable of finding it on my own." Already fed up with Maisie's company, Sherlock whisked out of the office. He ignored the few people that greeted him and went straight out the door, headed to the lab. There were a few more samples he was meant to look over before he was free to go and he was confident they wouldn't cause him too much trouble. As soon as they were done, he would be free to investigate Ainsley further.

* * *

Her ringtone was The Smiths_, _Sherlock noted absentmindedly as he waited for Ainsley to pick up her phone. Meaningless, probably, but nonetheless, he stored the bit of info at the back of his mind.

_I would go out tonight _  
_But I haven't got a stitch to wear _  
_This man said "it's gruesome _  
_That someone so handsome should care_."

"Hello?" a voice finally answered. There was a large crash on the other end, followed by the ferocious yowl of a cat, and then- _"Elsa, would you please cut it out?"_

"Ainsley Boyd, I presume?" Sherlock said smoothly.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry, who is this?" There was a pause before she gasped loudly. "Hang on, is this that Arthur Nichols guy? How the hell did you get my number?"

"I work with the police; I can get anyone's number."

"Didn't we already establish that you're a fake?" she sneered.

"We established I'm a thief," Sherlock corrected her. "There's a difference. I may not be Oscar Jenkins, but I do, in fact, work as a forensics scientist with the police."

"So you used that to illegally get my number?"

"Yes. I also used it to find out that in 2004, you were arrested for trespassing. It was a minor offense, but it still haunts you to this day. Why?"

"Is this your idea of a practical joke?" Ainsley's voice sounded a couple of octaves higher; Sherlock clearly struck a nerve.

"Not in the least. This is just my idea of _fun." _He could hear her take a steadying breath.

"Look, I really don't know why I'm the one being interrogated when you're the identity thief. And I'm not talking about Jenkins anymore, I'm talking about the fact that you're not Arthur Nichols. Arthur Nichols might not even exist. So you can pick on me for keeping secrets when you tell me yours."

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock's lips curled into a smile. This girl wasn't as intelligent as him, but she was smart enough, perhaps even smarter than she knew. It was going to be great fun to piece together her puzzle, he could tell.

"Is that a challenge, Miss Boyd?"

"No. It's a threat."

"But an empty one, yet again," he pointed out. "For whatever reason, you can't afford to go to the police. But don't worry, I won't tell on you, either. In fact, I rather like you. And I always enjoy a good game."

"Game?" she stuttered. "What kind of game?" She was intrigued, Sherlock could feel it.

"A sort of hide and seek, shall we say. You try to find out who I am, and I try to find out what you did. Whoever figures it out first, wins." The rules were reckless, but Sherlock was feeling reckless anyways. Besides, she would never win. She just needed to think she could if he was ever going to get her to cooperate.

"And the information we find? What do we do with it?" Ainsley asked hesitantly.

"Nothing," Sherlock assured her. "We'll just have the pleasure of knowing we figured it out."

"I-I'm not sure about this."

"But aren't you curious, Ainsley? Don't you want to know exactly what my secret is?" he pressed before reeling himself back in. "Of course, it's entirely up to you. Make up your mind, and go to the cafe where we first met, tomorrow at 2 PM. I'll be waiting to hear your decision."

"Is that your way of asking me out, Mr. Not-Nichols?"

"Never," he promised. "It would only be a game."

**A/N: What do you think? I've been updating super fast because I'm on vacation and need something to do. I'll be here next week too, so I might update a lot then as well. Thanks to everyone who reviewed/followed. Please keep on telling me if you like it!**


	4. Chapter Three

In a shocking twist of fate, the cafe's food wasn't so bad. One could almost say it was good. Sherlock allowed himself to nibble at it as he waited for Ainsley to arrive. She was coming, he was positive of it.

It had been impossible to ignore the guarded excitement in her voice on the phone. No matter how alarmed she pretended she was, she liked the idea of the game, just as much as John liked the danger of solving crimes. It didn't matter that it was already ten minutes past two and there was no sign of her. She would come, just as surely as the sun would rise.

As if by magic, Sherlock watched her silhouette appear down the street. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear, _he mused silently. He reassessed her carefully, this time looking for more specific clues to her past.

She looked a bit more put together today, but that was most likely down to the fact that she wasn't just seeing her sister. She wore a grey t-shirt with a floral lace overlay underneath a thin army green coat with gold snap buttons. From the waist down, her outfit was exactly the same: skinny jeans and lace-up leather ankle boots.

"This game you want to play. What do I get if I win?" Ainsley demanded once she reached the table. Sherlock cocked his head.

"The pure satisfaction of knowing you could beat me isn't enough?" he teased.

"I already know I could beat you," she scoffed. "I mean something real." This was an unexpected twist. Sherlock hadn't pinned her as the gambling type.

"Are you implying you want money?" She squirmed under his laser-like gaze.

"My sister's pregnant," she explained in a rush. "Our mom is dead and our dad is in a hospice. I don't _want _money. I need it."

He smiled to himself. Without knowing it, Ainsley had given him some very valuable clues. No available parents and no money? That almost certainly had something to do with her little crime. For a moment, he almost felt guilty about how badly he was going to beat her.

"And if I win?" he suggested. Ainsley narrowed her eyes.

"You won't," she said firmly.

"But if I do," he pressed. She bit her lip.

"Then, I guess it's only fair if I give you the money."

"Can you really risk that?" Sherlock wondered. "You make your situation sound very dire. Would you and your sister even be able to survive if you lost?"

"It's not a risk if you know the outcome," she insisted. "I'm going to win."

"Your confidence is inspiring," he conceded. "But I must warn you: I'm very clever."

"That may be," she murmured. "But you're forgetting something."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock requested. Ainsley beamed.

"I'm very clever too."

* * *

The meeting continued in a purely professional manner: there were rules to be decided upon and choices to make. Eventually, they both settled on a list of reasonable restrictions on their little game:

_1. Police records were out of bounds. The only resources that could be used were those that were available to both of them: books, the internet, newspapers, etc. _

_2. Family members should be left out of it. Sherlock wasn't allowed to harass Elsa in any way, shape, or form. _

_3. It was perfectly fine to interview friends and colleagues. If you could work out who they were and learn how to contact them, you could ask them anything you pleased. _

_4. As soon as you thought you figured it out, you were to schedule a meeting at the cafe. If you ended up being wrong, the game would continue as normal. _

_5. You could not lie to avoid losing. If you'd been beaten, you must admit it. _

_6. The loser must pay the winner £500 at the earliest possible time._

Ainsley had been very particular about the list, particularly Rule Two. She made it abundantly clear that her sister could not get involved, no matter what. To Sherlock, it was a bit pathetic how overly protective she was about Elsa. Elsa was a grown up. She didn't need a little sister to look out for her. Yet Ainsley seemed determined to keep her in the dark about everything. Almost like she was afraid Sherlock would stoop so low as to hurt her sister. He registered this tidbit with everything else he knew about her. She was rebellious; a writer, but probably an unmotivated one; outspoken; secretive; poor; effectively parentless; selfless, since she was more concerned about her sister's safety from him than her own; and unnaturally wary.

In a normal case, that would be all he needed to know. But Sherlock's specialty was _who's, _not _what's. _All the little facts he acquired were bouncing around in his head without a home. Plus, this was all very informative as to who Ainsley was now, but who was to say how much had changed since 2004? There was virtually nothing he could be certain about.

Fed up with all the questions, Sherlock flicked open his laptop and opened up Google. It was a very straightforward approach, and also his best source of information at the moment. He typed her name in and hit 'search'.

The entry fielded millions of results and Sherlock clicked through the first few with mild interest. Most of them were useless stories about different Ainsley's in different towns, but there was one of interest. It was dated December 14, 2004, directly after Ainsley was arrested.

**_LOCAL TEEN ARRESTED FOR TRESPASSING, _**the headline announced. Sherlock scrolled down to read more.

_DUNFERMLINE, SCOTLAND - When resident Greg Hull heard something outside his window, he assumed it was simply a lost dog or cat. He never imagined he would find Ainsley Boyd, aged 18, hiding out in his bushes. _

_Boyd, a student at Edinburgh University, had just gotten home for Christmas break when she climbed over Hull's fence and landed in his backyard. For an unknown reason, she began to approach the house until she tripped over a tree stump near the door. Hull claims to have been "baffled" when he found her sprawled on his doorstep. _

_"This is a girl I've known since she was a baby," he told the Dunfermline Times. "Her parents are some of my best friends in the world. When I saw her, I was really very confused - and she looked quite confused too, like she didn't know she'd done. I thought for a moment she was just drunk." A blood test proved that Boyd had not been drinking or doing drugs before entering Hull's yard. Police say that when questioned, she was able to remember very clearly climbing the fence, though she didn't say why. "I didn't want to get her in any trouble," Hull continued. "I just wanted to find out what was going on. I was too shocked to process what was happening, really." No one, of course, was more shocked than Boyd's parents. _

_"My daughter is not a thief," Mary Boyd is reported to have said upon hearing the news that Boyd was arrested. "She's a good girl." When asked to comment, Mrs. Boyd declined. Her husband, Patrick, did agree to speak with us for a few minutes. _

_"Right now, we're really just concerned about finding out what's going on with our daughter," he said. "Once we figure out why she did this, we'll take it from there." _

_Mr. Hull has confirmed he will only press charges for trespassing, not attempted burglary. While this is Miss Boyd's first offense, Hull is no stranger to the court. Last month, he served as prosecutor in the controversial case against murderer Thomas McKenzie. While McKenzie is currently serving a life sentence in jail, Miss Boyd's fate is yet to be seen.  
_

Sherlock slammed his screen down. He needed time to sort all this new knowledge. This Hull man was clearly a high-profile lawyer if he was spearheading a case against a killer. And Ainsley had said her mother was dead and father in hospice, but that had obviously been a fairly recent development. Then there was the fact that she was an Edinburgh student - or she had been. Was she allowed to finish her degree after this little incident?

He dismissed the question. It was irrelevant. All that mattered was the crime itself. Taking a deep breath, he started to assemble a timeline of sorts for Ainsley's life. She went from being a student at Edinburgh to a criminal with a dead mother rather quickly. Everything that mentioned her before December 14th was only full of praise. It didn't quite add up.

First of all, Ainsley appeared to have a fairly strong moral compass. She was reluctant to play the game and even more reluctant to put her innocent sister at risk. And it was clear that she deeply regretted whatever it was that had happened there. Secondly, why would a thief target someone they knew so well? It sounded like this Hull man was rather close the Boyd family, so she ran a huge risk of being recognized by choosing his house.

Unless she didn't have a choice. After all, if Ainsley wanted to rob a house, she was smart enough not to trip on a tree root in the process. So what if the trip was something much more calculated than an accident? What if she was trying to find a way out from whatever it was she was doing? Sherlock shot up from his chair with a jolt and began pacing the floor.

Maybe Ainsley's crime wasn't _her _crime at all. Maybe she was tricked into it by someone. The question was, who? A friend at university? No, they wouldn't know this Hull person, so they'd have no reason to pick him out. Could it be a wronged relative of Hull, someone who wanted something from the house? Unlikely, but Sherlock grinned anyways.

He may not have it all figured out yet, but he wasdefinitely back in the game.


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: Because I've forgotten this for every other chapter... I don't own Sherlock, I just own Ainsley and company.  
**

It was cases like this that Sherlock wished he had someone to talk to. If not John, he at least wanted his skull. This whole game was becoming and more intricate and he needed someone to vent to.

In a flash of brilliance, he leapt into the bathroom to receive a festering human head from the sink, only to find it encroached on by mold. He pouted down at it, feeling a distinct yearning for human company - true, _alive _human company.

"I'll just talk to thin air, then, shall I?" he spat sarcastically to the bodiless head. The gruesome eyes stared up at him blankly, offering no comfort.

"I suppose John _was _good for something," he droned.

It really shouldn't matter so much that he was alone. After all, even back in Baker Street, Sherlock tended to talk for ages after John left and it never bothered him then. Perhaps his loneliness had something to do with the fact that it was just then sinking in that he might never talk to his best friend again. He couldn't possibly return to his old life before he had some tangible evidence of Moriarty's existence, perhaps a witness of some kind, and after three months, he was inclined to believe that there was literally no trace of the man, no matter how hard he searched. And yet he was still living in fear of Moriarty's spies watching his every move, plotting when to spring their trap.

Yes, he, the great Sherlock Holmes, was scared. It was a sensation he was only vaguely familiar with. He remembered feeling something like it as a child, listening to his mother and father scream at each other from behind the door. Those were the times Mycroft would cruise through the room, assess the scene, and then send the nanny in to pick up and comfort his little brother. Back then Sherlock swore he wouldn't get himself in a situation like that again; wouldn't bother with those silly things called feelings. But now, when he was constantly aware that if he made one misstep, there was an entire web of criminals who would be more than happy to see him in a grave, those feelings were starting to trickle back in. It was that damned human instinct of his: he sensed danger, so he felt fear. There was nothing he could really do to stop it.

For now, his only option was to distract himself until he thought of another way to pin down Moriarty. And the best way to do that was to throw himself completely into this contest he had with Ainsley.

"Now, where was I?" he muttered to himself, flopping onto the couch and dragging his computer onto his lap. "Ah, yes. Greg Hull." He tapped the name into Google and hit 'enter'. A seemingly endless stream of newspaper articles appeared on the screen, all regarding Hull's various lawsuits and trials.

The lawyer was quite accomplished; he'd represented everyone from beggars to the Prime Minister. Dozens of criminals had been taken into custody because of him. That being said, he also had a lot of enemies.

Every person he threw into jail equaled one person who would wish him harm - and possibly even resort to putting that burden on Ainsley. However, it would only make sense for the culprit to have been out of jail by the December of 2004, so they could cajole her into committing the crime. That narrowed down the field considerably, as most of the men Hull prosecuted were assassins or rapists and sentenced to a near eternity in prison. He or she was probably young at the time, young enough to sneak into a university party and convince Ainsley, which also eliminated loads of possibilities.

Before Sherlock moved forward, he navigated to Greg Hull's website, where there was a detailed list of everyone he'd gotten convicted of a crime. Each name came with the crime they committed, the sentence, the date and the age of the person at the time, which made Sherlock's job infinitely easier. All he had to do was delete everyone who was still in jail after 2004. From there, he could start ruling people out by age and severity of crime. It was as simple as that.

He was tempted to call Ainsley and brag about his latest developments, but that seemed rude, even for him. Contrary to popular belief, he did have a heart, and he truly regretted that he would very shortly taking £500 from her. Of course, he didn't regret it enough to put an end to the game. Just enough to be respectful to her for the time being. And teasing each other that way seemed awfully friendly, and Sherlock Holmes didn't _have _friends. He had John, and that was quite enough for him.

_But chances are you'll never even see John again, _a malicious voice hissed. It had an irritatingly familiar Irish accent. _Not unless you're able to come find me. _

Sherlock winced. Even now that he was six feet under, Moriarty kept cropping up everywhere. He couldn't allow Sherlock a moment's peace.

_I will find you, _Sherlock replied mentally, ignoring the fact that he was speaking to the imaginary voice of a dead man. _I'll find you very, very soon. This game is only temporary, and when it's finished I will finally destroy you. _

**A/N: Short, I know, but I thought it was important to provide some insight into what's really going on in Sherlock's mind. There was even some stuff about his childhood in there! Review, and while you do, I have a very important question for you: What would you think of a chapter showing Ainsley's side of the story? Should I try it, or just stick to Sherlock? Let me know please!  
**


	6. Chapter Five

Ewan Neil. That's who made Ainsley do it, it had to be. He was the only one of Greg Hull's clients that fit all the requirements: he was young, out of jail in 2003, and, according to the few reports Sherlock had read on him, _very _manipulative. It was all coming together now. He had an almost complete timeline of the crime. Ewan sneaked into a party, mentioned Greg Hull in passing to Ainsley, and asked her out. He'd say something about how he lost so much money when he got sent to jail and needed something to help him get back on his feet. Then, he would have become more forceful about his hatred of Greg Hull and Ainsley would finally have no other choice but to steal something of great value from her lifelong neighbor. Terrified of the repercussions, she purposely flubbed the break-in and allowed herself to get caught trespassing instead. It all made sense!

There was, however, one little thing Sherlock wanted to clear up. Ainsley mentioned her dead mother and ailing father, but it sounded as though they were both perfectly well in 2004. And she was only twenty-seven, which seemed awfully young to have to deal with that. More often than not, children didn't have to watch their parents die until they were in their forties or fifties. The whole affair reeked of foul play.

Of course, there was always the possibility that her parents' various issues had nothing to do her getting arrested. But if they did, that would explain why Ainsley felt such a strong need to protect her sister. Curiously, Sherlock looked up Mary and Patrick Boyd.

The first result was from the same paper that reported on Ainsley's arrest. **_MARRIED COUPLE FOUND IN CAR WRECKAGE,_**the headline declared. He clicked on the link to the Dunfermline Times article.

_ALLOA, SCOTLAND - Mary and Patrick Boyd's road trip to Edinburgh took a tragic turn when the couple's car drove into a ditch on the side of the road near Alloa. After spending hours stranded, a passerby finally noticed the pair and called an ambulance immediately. _

_"The car was just ruined," said Ray White, the man who found the Boyd's. "As soon as I noticed there were still people in it, I knew I had to do something." White's instincts may have saved the life of Patrick Boyd, who was brought to the hospital with critical injuries. Mr. Boyd suffered some internal bleeding and a collapsed lung from the accident. While it is likely that he will never fully recover, the hospital is confident he will survive. _

_Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Mr. Boyd's wife, Mary, who was found dead at the scene. Mrs. Boyd, 41, is remembered by her family as a bright, understanding soul who refused to see anything but the best in people. Perhaps most heartbroken by her death is her 19 year old daughter, Ainsley. _

_"I don't know what to say," she told our reporters from outside the hospital. "We-we'd really love some privacy right now, but, um. My mum was amazing, even after everything that happened last year." (Miss Boyd is referring to her recent arrest for trespassing.) Overcome with grief, Miss Boyd's older sister, Elsa, lead her away from the press towards their car. _

_Police are currently looking into the crash. While car accidents are usually not a result of foul play, a mechanic has confirmed that the break lines were cut prior to the wreckage.  
_

_"Right now we're just trying to find this family the closure they need," a spokesman for the department said. "It is still entirely likely that the break lines simply broke, but we are looking into the possibility that they were cut." _

Sherlock took a moment to absorb the new influx of information. Perhaps it was unimportant, but something seemed rather off about the whole thing. Determined to figure it out, he scanned the article once more. Written by Joan Werner, published on December 14, 2005-

Of course! The date, the date, how had nobody noticed the date? The crash took place exactly a year after Ainsley's arrest. It was a message. Ewan Neil, furious that Ainsley didn't do his bidding, had exacted his revenge on her parents, knowing how guilty she would feel. It really was a genius move, one Sherlock wouldn't have expected from the common criminal. At last, things were finally getting really interesting.

More importantly - he'd _won. _After a mere day and a half, he had totally and completely managed to figure out what Ainsley was up to. Now all that was left to do was collect his £500. He dialed Ainsley's number giddily and listened impatiently to her ring tone.

"Come on, come on, pick up!" he begged.

"Hello, Not-Arthur-Nichols," came her answer. He smirked.

"Hello Ainsley. I regret to inform you that you have officially lost the game and therefore are required to send me £500 at your earliest convenience." He heard a sharp intake of air on the other side of the line, and surprised himself by feeling bad for her.

"L-lost?" she stammered brokenly. "How can you be so sure?" Sherlock let out a deriding bark of laughter.

"Because I've figured it out! I know exactly what you were doing at Greg Hull's house on December 14, 2004," he bragged condescendingly.

"You could be wrong," Ainsley insisted.

"I'm never wrong," he assured her. "But if you really don't believe me, come to my flat tomorrow at 11 AM. I will _prove _to you I won."

"Fine," she agreed. "I'll see you then." There was a pregnant pause, and when she spoke again, her voice had regained some of its usual confidence. "And I'll prove to _you _that you're wrong."

**A/N: Another fairly short chapter. What do you think? Do you think Sherlock got it all right, or is there something else going on here? Shout out to The Yoshinator for being an awesome reviewer! Now I just some need some other people to review... *hint hint***


	7. Chapter Six

It was 11:07 and there was no sign of Ainsley. Of course, Sherlock already knew timeliness wasn't her forte, so he wasn't too offended. Besides, it was only polite to let her have a few minutes before he shattered her heart and proved that he won. Absentmindedly, he browsed the internet as he waited.

Most of the websites he looked at were silly little newspapers chocked full with articles about stupid celebrities and mundane lottery winners, but eventually he found himself on John's blog. There weren't many entries since his 'death', but the few there were all talked about Moriarty, how he was _real, _how John met him, how all this business about Sherlock being a fake was ridiculous. It put a small smile on his face to read it. Moriarty had been right about one thing - John was an incredibly loyal man. It was quite touching, really.

An obnoxiously loud buzz broke the peaceful silence. Ainsley had arrived. Moaning to himself at the unfairness of having to get up, Sherlock threw his laptop on the couch and thrust open his door.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said dryly as she tip-toed behind him, looking around warily at his collections of gruesome memorabilia. She seemed equal parts intrigued and disgusted by the various body parts he had lying around.

"This is where you _live?" _she confirmed incredulously.

"Nice, isn't it?"

"'Nice' wasn't exactly the word I had in mind," Ainsley sniped, using the tips of her fingers to pick up his bloody riding crop on the counter. "'Horrifying' seems a bit more appropriate."

"Tomato, to-mah-toe," he shrugged breezily. "And you might want to put that down; that's human blood on it." She let go of the crop with a high-pitched shriek. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Could you please try to control yourself?" he added.

"Sorry, it's just not everyday that you meet someone with such a nasty fetish," she accused. Sherlock's cheeks went half a shade redder.

"It's-it's not a fetish," he objected. "It's for experiments."

"Lovely, so I'm stuck in a flat with a mad scientist," she spat.

"If I were you, I'd be more worried about the fact that you're about to be out £500," Sherlock threatened lowly, spinning around so they were mere inches apart. "Does your sister know you've gambled away the money that's meant to be saved for her firstborn?"

"I haven't gambled it away," Ainsley insisted. "Not yet."

"Haven't you, though?" he snarled.

"Would you just shut up?" she gulped. Sherlock was embarrassed to note that her eyes were now glistening with tears. _Just what I need, _he thought to himself. _A crying woman. _

"If you knew you were going to be this upset if I won, you shouldn't have played the game at all," he admonished her softly. Her hazel eyes flashed.

_"You haven't won!"_ she shouted. "You have no proof that you won."

"Fine," Sherlock growled. "I'll take you through it step by step, shall I? You went to a party at Edinburgh University, where you met a man called Ewan Neil. Ewan, as it happened, was an enemy of your neighbor, Gregory Hull. By some means of coercion, Ewan convinced you to steal something from Hull as payback for getting him put in jail. You agreed, but having a very strong moral code, you decided to sabotage yourself and made enough noise to alert Hull to your presence. You got off with a trespassing charge only, and forgot about the incident entirely, until a year later when Ewan cut the brakes on your parent's car, leaving your mother dead and your father critically injured."

Ainsley stared up at him for a few minutes before making any noise. Her eyes were wide open, and Sherlock couldn't help but be fascinated with the amazing kaleidoscope of greens and browns they held. Her lips were slightly parted in shock and for a moment she looked rather beautiful, even to a man as callous as Sherlock. Then, suddenly, she began to giggle.

"Oh, that was a good show, Arthur," she panted between bouts of laughter. Her eyes screwed closed and he noticed the tiniest dimples form on her cheeks.

"What on earth is so funny?" he boomed. "I've just beat you!"

"But you haven't!" she howled. "You've got it all wrong, all of it!" Heat rushed through Sherlock's face. It wasn't possible; it had all added up perfectly. He'd been so, so sure.

"You're lying," he alleged. She sobered a little, but the smirk never left her face.

"What, did my left hand twitch?" she sneered. "I've never met Ewan Neil in my life and I can prove it to you." Without waiting for a response, she skipped over to his computer and opened a new tab. In a few seconds, she navigated to the website of carpenter Ewan Neil. "Give me your phone," she ordered.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock breathed.

"Your phone," she repeated. "Now." Reluctantly, he tossed her his mobile and watched her dial in the number listed.

"Shall I put it on speaker?" she wondered. "Yes, I think I will." The dial tone rang through the room and Sherlock felt his hands get uncharacteristically clammy.

"Hullo?" a man's voice answered after what seemed like an eternity. "This is the Neil Carpentry Company, Ewan Neil speaking." Ainsley shot Sherlock a mischievous glance.

"Ewan!" she enthused. "It's been far too long! It's me, Ainsley! Ainsley Boyd."

"Uh, sorry?" Ewan grunted.

"Don't you remember? We met at Edinburgh. Ainsley Boyd! Doesn't that ring a bell?" The other end of the line was silent. "No?" Ainsley pouted. "Oh, well. That's just like you, Ewan. Always so forgetful."

"Right, is this a prank?"

"Of course not! I was just wondering if you wanted to get together for a cup of coffee or tea sometime! You know, reminisce about that old bastard Greg Hull."

_"What?!" _Ewan hollered. "Listen, lady, I don't know who you are, or why you think we met at Edinburgh when I've never even _been _to Edinburgh, but I have to tell you, I've had quite enough of this. If this is a joke, hang up now. Hang up now, or I'll call the police."

"Whatever you say, Ewan," Ainsley sighed before ending the call. She smiled smugly at Sherlock.

"Did it sound like we'd ever spoken before?" she asked. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. Grinning, Ainsley waltzed over to him. "Nice try, Arthur Nichols, but you'll have to be a lot better than that to figure me out."

"This is impossible," Sherlock managed. Her expression softened. It almost looked like she pitied him.

"I really am sorry to damage your ego like this," she told him. "But I'm afraid I have no other choice. I will tell you this, though." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You've got all the pieces right in your hands. The only problem is, it's damned near impossible to fit them together." She walked away from him and swung open the door.

"Oh, and Arthur?" she called, looking back. "The next time we see each other, I'd prefer it if you gave me the 500 quid in a check. It'll save a lot of time that way."

And with that, she was gone.

**A/N: Ooh... What do you think is going on here? Is Sherlock possibly starting to like Ainsley? And how it possible that he's (gasp) WRONG?! Reviews are much appreciated, as always. See you soon! (Well, not really. _Write _you soon, I guess.) **


	8. Chapter Seven

Sherlock had never felt anything remotely like this before. He was _wrong. _For once in his life he was utterly wrong about something, and it was more than a little mortifying. (Ainsley's hysterical reaction had done nothing to ease the blow.)

Yet, in a twisted way, he felt _happy. _Happy that the game was still on, happy that Ainsley wouldn't have to surrender her meager fortune just yet, happy that this meant he got to meet her at the cafe again. It was disgusting, really. John would say something about it just meaning Sherlock was 'human', but that didn't change the fact that Ainsley was getting in the way of everything. Sure, she wasn't insufferable company, but if Sherlock hadn't been wasted all his energy on her, perhaps he would have some sort of lead on Moriarty. He definitely wouldn't be dealing with these asinine feelings for a girl he'd known for a grand total of four days.

It wasn't that he _liked _Ainsley, at least, not the way one would expect. He just craved human company, that was all. He'd been far too lonely since he left Baker Street, and now that he had another companion, he was reluctant to go back to his reclusive ways. End of story.

Anyways, his feelings were not the most important thing here. The most important thing was winning this game and moving on with his life. He had a reputation to uphold and he could not let himself be humiliated a second time. Ever since she left his flat yesterday, he'd been racking his mind for clues he might have overlooked or ignored, but he couldn't think of anything. It was like he had some sort of measles of the mind.

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

Sherlock jolted out of his reverie. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he'd almost completely forgotten where he was: work. And at the moment, he was supposed to be working with another forensics scientist, Jack Mellert, on identifying a blood sample taken from a crime scene.

Jack was probably the least insufferable person involved with the police. He was a quiet enough man with a painfully obvious crush on Maisie, but he was shockingly competent. Truth be told, if Sherlock were back in England, he wouldn't mind Jack working with Scotland Yard. As it was, he tried his very best not to alienate the one man he got along with at work and seem at least a little polite.

"Perfectly fine, thank you," Sherlock assured him. "Just got a little distracted. Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I just got finished looking at the sample. Thought you might want to take a peek so we could discuss our findings," Jack explained patiently. Sherlock bent over the microscope. "See anything?" Jack prompted.

"Mercury," he declared, almost instantaneously. "There's an over-concentration of mercury. Did the victim eat any salmon in the days before her death?" Jack frowned.

"I wouldn't know," he said cautiously. "That's Jenkins' job to find out, isn't it?"

"Oh, right," Sherlock faltered. "Of course."

This business with Ainsley was making it difficult to remember who Arthur Nichols was. Sherlock couldn't resist the need to blurt out the answers he wasn't supposed to know. He desperately wanted to prove that he was the best at what he did, more to himself than to Ainsley. No one else could possibly notice the things he did. This one little slip-up was irrelevant, a mere fluke in the grand scheme of things.

"I agree, though," Jack divulged. "About the mercury." He hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more, but stopped himself. "I'll just fax a report to Jenkins, then."

Sherlock nodded, internally kicking himself. Jack was clearly a bit suspicious. Of course, there was no way he really knew what was going on, but one of Moriarty's spies would be able to tell in a heartbeat. The game with Ainsley was the biggest risk he could take at this point. He listened to Jack's retreating footsteps until the silence was broken with the obnoxiously loud ring of his phone.

He sighed. He really did still hate talking on the phone, but he'd gotten into the habit of it lately - it seemed like a very Arthur Nichols thing to do. Reluctantly, he accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he drawled.

_"Sherlock Holmes,"_ a familiar voice breathed. "That's who you are, isn't it? You're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock froze. How could Ainsley possibly have figured it out? She couldn't have won. He'd erased all of his tracks. If this girl had figured it out, who else had?

"Don't try to deny it, Sherlock," she continued. "I know. I saw the website up on your computer; that blog." _Damn it. _"I looked it up when I got home because it seemed interesting. I stayed up all night reading the stories. Every one."

"Then you would know Sherlock Holmes is dead," Sherlock fired back.

"Oh, don't be stupid. I reckon a man like you could get a dead body from the morgue if he really wanted to. No one else could know the things you know about people just by looking; it has to be you." For a moment, all Sherlock could hear was Ainsley's heavy breathing. "But that's not why I called."

His mind began racing. Was that a hint of fear he detected in her voice? What could she possibly be scared of? She was about to get £500 off of him; that was hardly a frightening prospect. An icy sense of dread leaked into his heart. What could possibly be going on? The spies, did they find her? He'd never forgive himself if they killed her-

"I called because there's something you need to know too," she elaborated. "Come to my flat now. And I mean _now. _I'll text you the address. This is an emergency, Sherlock."

He was on his way before she even finished speaking.

**A/N: Ooh! It's getting crazy! And by the way, just because Ainsley won the game, doesn't mean this story is anywhere near over. What do you think she needs to tell Sherlock so badly? Review please! I couldn't help but notice I had 7 reviews and seven chapters. It might be nice to have more reviews than chapters, eh? **


	9. Chapter Eight

The first thing Sherlock noticed about Ainsley's flat was that it almost as cluttered as his own. Worn out copies of books by F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway littered the floor around a tiny table where a typewriter sat. A stack of pages was piled beside it, presumably the manuscript for Ainsley's book. The kitchen sink was overflowing with uncleaned dishes and rusty pots. The wallpaper was peeling off at the edges.

And in the midst of all that chaos, Ainsley sat calmly on the couch, a calico cat in her lap.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, skipping the pleasantries. Ainsley slowly turned her head towards him, as if she was in a dream.

"Thanks for coming," she sniffed. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm not scared," he scoffed. "I just want know what's going on."

"Take a seat," she suggested.

"I'd prefer to stand." Ainsley shrugged and let out a heaving sigh.

"I think I should tell you what really made me do what I did," she whispered. Sherlock nearly exploded.

"That's what you called me here for?" he spat. "That's irrelevant, you've won. Unless you have something to say that actually matters-" Ainsley held up a hand to stop him, smiling a Mona Lisa smile.

"You'll want to hear this," she promised. "Trust me." Sherlock examined her face. She seemed earnest.

"Fine. Now talk." She looked towards the window.

"You were partially right when you said I didn't want to do it," she began.

"I knew it!" Sherlock interjected.

"But it wasn't Ewan Neil," she continued, as if he'd never spoken at all. "I was at Edinburgh, like you said, but we couldn't really afford it. I got a scholarship and everything, but before I came home for Christmas, my parents told me they were very sorry but they didn't think they could afford for me to go any longer unless I found a way to get the money." Her lower lip started trembling. "But I didn't want to leave. I loved it there. I started posting flyers everywhere. I was babysitting and tutoring, taking basically any job I could get my hands on." She met Sherlock's eyes and breathed deeply.

"Then I met a man named Jim."

Sherlock's heart stopped. Jim, like Jim the gay IT guy? Jim, like Jim Moriarty? It couldn't be. Jim Moriarty didn't get down-on-their-luck university students to do his dirty work for him. He got hardened criminals. _But every criminal starts somewhere, _a cruel voice reminded him.

"He said he had a job for me. He wouldn't tell me what it was, but I was desperate and drunk enough to agree anyways. I got paid in advance as a kind of insurance. He said now that he'd paid me, I couldn't back out or he'd hurt my family. There were all these stories he told me. All these awful things he'd done to people who ratted him out to the police. I was 18." Her voice broke. "I didn't know what to do. And then... He told me what the job really was."

"What did he tell you to do, Ainsley?" Sherlock roared. "What did he tell you to do?"

"Jim said he had a colleague," she quaked, closing her eyes to steady herself. "A man named Thomas McKenzie. Y-you probably read about him while you were doing all your research." The name sparked his memory.

"A serial killer," he recalled.

"Yeah," Ainsley confirmed. "Apparently he was really good at what he did. Helped Jim get out of a lot of trouble. But then, when Thomas was thrown in jail, he confessed. Jim was terrified that he'd told Greg Hull all about him: the world's only consulting criminal."

"And he wanted you to kill Hull," Sherlock provided. Upon hearing the words, Ainsley dissolved into tears.

"Yeah, he did," she admitted. "But I figured if I got caught, he couldn't do anything about it. It wouldn't necessarily be my fault. And I wouldn't even have to say anything about Jim to the police. I could just keep quiet and keep on living my life."

"Until he cut your parents' brakes a year later to get back at you for backing out." Sherlock could hardly handle this. It was simply too much. All this time looking for proof of Moriarty, and here it was: right under his nose.

"Uh-huh."

Suddenly, something occurred to him. There was one gaping plot hole in the story.

"But he didn't give out his name," he realized. "If you're talking about Moriarty, he wouldn't have told you who he was." Ainsley grinned sardonically.

"I'm much more observant than you give me credit for," she informed him. "Someone called him during on of our little meetings. He walked away, but I still heard him answer the phone: _'This is Jim Moriarty,' _he said. Clear as day."

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock demanded suspiciously. Didn't she realize Moriarty's puppets were everywhere? Why was she risking her life for him like this?

"Because I believe you're a better person than you pretend to be, Sherlock," she stated softly. "And you don't deserve to have your life ruined like mine was." She stood up slowly, dumping the cat off her lap, and trudged over to him. "So I am going to help you clear your name."

**A/N: Ahh! Did you see that coming? I did, but that's because I wrote it. Please continue to review and I'll try to keep updating on a regular basis like this!**


	10. Chapter Nine

Sherlock never really got excited about anything. (Except particularly bloody murders, that is.) He preferred to withhold judgement until he had the full story on what was happening: who was responsible, what had been done, who knew. But that didn't stop him from wanting to dance around the room like a nine year old girl when he heard Ainsley was going to help him.

This uncontrollable giddiness marked a big change in him. A couple of years ago he would be repulsed by the idea of teaming up with a degree-less redhead from Scotland. But, as he was so often reminded, John had changed things. It was possible for Sherlock to have friends, even if their minds were of a lower caliber than his. In all honesty, Ainsley obviously wasn't as smart as him and nothing was going to change that. It was just that he was finally realizing she still was quite clever, albeit in a very different way.

Even if she couldn't tell someone their life story at first glance, she possessed a sort of undeniable charm. She was good-looking, witty, brave, and unbelievably confident. Sherlock thought back to the articles dated before she was arrested. They were all stories about her being named class president or winning some type of speech and debate award. It was clear that people couldn't help but be drawn to her. If she wanted to, he had no doubt that she could manipulate the whole of London into committing suicide. Everyone trusted her, while she trusted no one. It was brilliant, really. You could tell her your whole life story without knowing a thing about her. And Sherlock was starting to think he could use that to his advantage.

"Remind me why you haven't just sent in a recording of me testifying that Moriarty was real?" the girl in question whined. It had been five days since they started working together, meeting every night at her flat (Ainsley claimed that she couldn't handle working in a room littered with chopped up body parts).

"Shall I give you the full list? One, they'll think I've brainwashed you; two, they'll find me and arrest me for corrupting you; three, they'll put you in a mental hospital," he rattled off. "That is, if Moriarty's puppets haven't killed us by then," he added as an afterthought.

"Don't you think if these 'puppets' were going to kill us, they would've done it already?" Ainsley pointed out, scratching Lucinda (her cat) behind the ears.

"If you ever listened to me, you'd know that they're luring us into a false sense of security. They want us to let our guard down," he explained impatiently. She groaned.

"But She- shhhhhall I give you the book when I'm finished?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" he spat, turning to face Ainsley. He stopped when he saw Elsa in the doorway, smiling widely.

"Hello, Arthur!" she chirped.

"Hello," Sherlock droned back. He and Ainsley had both agreed it would only cause trouble to get Elsa involved in any way, but it was a bit difficult to avoid her, considering the sisters lived together. Luckily, the pregnant woman was out more often than not, whether she was at the doctor or visiting her father. She was infuriatingly chipper at all times and astonishingly stupid. It baffled him that she was even related to Ainsley.

"You're back early, Elsie," Ainsley said sweetly, but Sherlock could plainly hear the irritation in her voice. He smiled to himself. It would appear that he was a bad influence on his new friend.

"I was just showing Daddy some of my ultrasound pictures and doing some shopping. It was a really long day."

"Obviously not long enough," Sherlock muttered. Ainsley whipped around to glare at him, but Elsa (thankfully) didn't notice.

"What were you shopping for?"

"Just some groceries. I just thought I'd make us all some good dinner. You, me, and Arthur. After all, I'm your big sister. I should know a little bit about your new boyfriend," she teased, much to Ainsley's mortification.

"Arthur is _not, not, not _my boyfriend," Ainsley sputtered. "No, no, no. Not at all."

"I'm afraid I don't date," Sherlock interjected.

"And even if he did, I'm definitely not interested," Ainsley finished, despite the fact that her flaming red cheeks pointed to the contrary.

"Oh," Elsa uttered awkwardly. "Sorry, I didn't realize-"

"Quite alright, Elsa," Sherlock assured her.

"Thanks. You, uh, can still stay for dinner if you like, Arthur," she invited. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Ainsley frantically mouthing the word _'No.' _Discreetly, he sent her a wink.

"I'd love that, thank you," he consented graciously.

* * *

Sherlock normally didn't have much of a stomach when he was working, but he decided to do the 'polite' thing and at least nibble at his meal. Honestly, Elsa's cooking was impressively good. The chicken was cooked to perfection and the seasonings were divine. Maybe if she got a job as a chef somewhere, the Boyd's wouldn't be so hopelessly poor.

"It's delicious, Elsie," Ainsley said before he could. "Really."

"Thanks, sweets," the cook beamed. "It did come out rather well, if I do say so myself." She sipped from her water glass then put it down with a start. "Shoot! I forgot to take my vitamins before dinner."

"I can go get them so you can take them now," Ainsley offered. Her sister shook her head.

"No, no, I'll go get them. You have a guest."

"Arthur's not my guest," Ainsley began, but her sister was already gone.

"Elsa really is a fantastic cook," Sherlock said.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed in response. He feigned surprise.

"I'm eating dinner; I was invited."

"You weren't supposed to say _yes!"_

"What's wrong with me eating dinner at your house?" he questioned.

"It's... It's just _weird," _she said shrilly. "Just because I'm helping you, it doesn't mean we're... We're not friends."

"Really? I thought we were friends," Sherlock confessed. Ainsley raised an eyebrow.

_"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. He has one _friend. _Doctor John Watson," _she recited in an awful impression of a British man's voice.

"Then it's a shame Doctor John Watson thinks Sherlock Holmes is dead," he sighed. Her mouth quirked into a smile.

"Isn't that what I'm trying to help you with?" she wondered. Sherlock didn't reply.

_"Ainsley!"_ Elsa hollered from the kitchen. "Can you come help me reach the pill bottles?" Ainsley rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she slid out of her seat.

"Coming, Elsa!"

**A/N: A little bit of a fluffy chapter. How cute is Sherlock? Review please!**


	11. Chapter Ten

With each passing day, Sherlock was finding it harder and harder to keep his patience. It had been three weeks - _three whole weeks - _since he and Ainsley had started their little investigation and they still had nothing. Logically, it made sense. He always knew Moriarty was virtually untraceable and he couldn't expect leads to start cropping up everywhere because an overall average girl offered to lend her limited intellect to his cause. It was stupid; the kind of stuff people like Lestrade did.

John used to say that Sherlock's intelligence did him a disservice and now he was finally beginning to see why that was true. The truth was, Sherlock now held himself to such high standards that nothing could ever please him. It didn't matter how complex or difficult the case was, he had a psychological need to prove that he was just as good as he thought he was. And in a situation like this, that was simply impossible. He didn't comprehend that it was normal to struggle with things like consulting criminals. All he knew was that this was the one time he _really, really _needed to know something, and he was failing.

That wasn't even mentioning Ainsley, who was quickly grating on his last nerve. No matter how smart he'd mistakenly believed her to be, she was nothing. She'd been of no use throughout the whole ordeal. Her story might have been helpful, but she was always missing the little things: the unclear motives to a major crime, the way the detectives addressed the press about the events. Why was it so hard for her to just notice these things? They were in plain sight! Yet, like every other human being alive, she chose to remain completely oblivious to her surroundings. It was confounding.

"Well, this has been fun, but I have to get home," she announced one day, getting up from her seat. The pair had decided to move their headquarters to the local internet cafe, where Elsa couldn't ambush them in the middle of a conversation.

"What? Why?" Sherlock demanded. "You can't have finished reading that article yet; you're not nearly quick enough." She chose to ignore the last comment.

"I know, I know, it's heartbreaking. But unfortunately, Lucinda won't feed herself," she said, sticking out her bottom lip sarcastically.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock fumed. "We're on the trail of the world's greatest criminal mastermind and you're concerned about your cat not receiving enough nourishment? What does that thing even do all day, other than lick it's unmentionables?" Ainsley rolled her eyes.

"We're hardly 'on the trail'," she contradicted. "You may spend your life dissecting newspaper articles and pretending to find clues, but that doesn't mean you're getting anywhere." He bristled.

"Don't be petty, Ainsley," he condescended. "You're simply using insults to make yourself feel better about me being so very much smarter than you; it's a classic case of the schoolyard bully."

"Wow, you got me to a tee, Sherlock," she huffed furiously. "Yup, every night I sit in bed and cry myself to sleep because I'm not some freakish detective who everyone thinks is crazy, hiding hundreds of miles away from home instead of facing the only people that could possibly ever care. I mean, you're living the dream, buddy."

"Compared to you? A penniless writer with virtually no parents, an insufferably stupid sister, an annoying cat, no degree, and little to no realistic job opportunities due your criminal record? Yes, I would say I am 'living the dream', thank you," he retorted. Her upper lip curled in disgust.

"Do you ever wonder why you never had any real friends?" she asked suddenly in a remarkably civil tone. "I bet you think it's because no one could keep up with your massive brain, don't you?" Sherlock stayed silent. "I bet you think everyone just thought you were a freak."

"I-I don't understand how this is relevant," he managed.

"Maybe it's not," Ainsley conceded. "It's only that I want you to know, people don't dislike you because you're weird." She smiled peacefully. "No, Sherlock. People dislike you because you're an arse."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I think you heard me loud and clear," she snickered cruelly. "You're a dick to everyone you meet, and that's why you're sitting in a cafe in Scotland, rather than enjoying a quiet night in at 221B Baker Street."

"I don't try to be," he told her quietly. Her face softened.

"Maybe not. But you don't try _not _to be, either." Biting her lip, she sat down again and leaned across the table. "Have you ever just enjoyed something, Sherlock? Not because it was clever or new, but because you were having plain fun?"

"The human brain doesn't work that way," he countered. "No one can simply decide to have fun."

"You can decide to not have fun," she pointed out. "And I think that's what you do. I think everyday to wake up, and you look around at all these ordinary people living ordinary lives, and you think 'I can't be like them.' So you decide time and time again to be above it all. You don't see the good in silly things like going to the cinema because you don't want to. You want to see the stupidity, so you have an excuse to keep living your lonely little life. You're terrified that one day you might see how sweet it is to be happy for the sake of being happy, and then you'll realize that you've wasted your life being sad and bored. This whole 'consulting detective' persona is just your way of protecting yourself from that."

"That's absurd."

"Prove it," Ainsley challenged. "Let's have another game. For a whole entire week, we are going to do absolutely nothing about Moriarty. You're going to call in sick to work, because you hate it anyways, and you and I are going to go do everything so-called normal people consider fun. Then, at the end of the week, you are going to _honestly _tell me if you enjoyed yourself. If you did, I get to keep the £500 I won last time. If you didn't, I'll give it back to you, and I'll promise to never complain about this ever again."

"You might as well give back the 500 now," he scoffed.

"But wouldn't winning taste so much sweeter if you actually earned it?" she pressed. He hesitated and she grinned at him. "Come on. What better do you have to do? Whip disfigured bodies raw and read every article about ever criminal that's ever lived?"

"Yes, actually," Sherlock snapped.

"It's just a week!" she insisted. "Seven pathetic little days. And I saw your flat, I think you could use the 500 quid as much as me. What do you have to lose?"

"My dignity?" he suggested. She threw her head back, cackling.

"I promise I won't tell anyone," she swore. She stuck her hand out. "Live a little, Sherlock. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in constant misery."

And _that_ is how Ainsley Boyd convinced Sherlock Holmes to become really, truly ordinary.

**A/N: I actually like this chapter. Do you? Review please!**


	12. Chapter Eleven

Sherlock wasn't in the mood to go out. It didn't matter to him that it was Monday, day one of Ainsley's pathetic game. He wanted to stay in bed, so he would. He was going to ignore any knocks on the door and simply pretend he didn't exist. It was going to be a superb day of questionable experiments and perhaps a little bit of research mixed in.

_Buzz. _Ah, there was Ainsley. But it didn't matter. No one could come in unless he let them in, so-

So why was the door opening? More curious than scared, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and stomped into the living room, where he found a smirking redhead lounging on his couch, fiddling on her mobile.

"Are you aware I could have you arrested for breaking and entering? _Again,_" he added witheringly. She chuckled.

"No, you couldn't. I was let in," she informed him haughtily.

"Unless you're implying my flat is also home to a friendly ghost, I'm going to have to disagree."

"Don't be stupid. I met your landlord on my way up. He's a very nice man. A bit of a perv, mind you, but he got me in with a skeleton key," she explained.

"Damn him," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Cheer up," Ainsley laughed. "The whole point of this is to have fun, remember?"

"No, the point of this is for you to get confirmation that you're living a fulfilling life, despite not possessing my level of intellect. Of course, if you just asked me, I could tell you that the answer to that question is _no, _you do not live a fulfilling life."

"Watch it," she warned him lowly. "I'm trying to help you."

"Fine." He rolled his eyes before putting on a sweet grin. "Won't you please tell me what we're doing today, Ainsley?"

"No need for the sarcasm," she joked. "But I'll tell you anyways. Because I'm feeling merciful, we are doing the grossest, most gruesome thing I could possibly find. That being said, I have a feeling you'll love it."

"University of Edinburgh's Anatomical Museum," he guessed immediately. Ainsley frowned.

"You know, it's really no fun when you do that," she told him. "But, yeah. Home to the most disgusting relics imaginable." She glanced at the jar of fingers on the counter, wrinkling her nose. "Who knows? Maybe inspiration will strike for a new experiment."

"I'm afraid that's the only good thing that could possibly come out of this," Sherlock whined.

"Oh, come off it. Don't even try to pretend this isn't right up your ally," she chided him, propelling herself off the couch. "Now, let's go have some good, old-fashioned fun."

* * *

"Look at his skull, Ainsley."

"Sorry, what?"

"Something's wrong with his skull. What do you think it is?" Sherlock persisted.

Reluctantly, Ainsley raised her eyes to examine the skeleton of William Burke, a man who murdered somewhere between 16 and 30 people, only to sell their bodies to the Doctor Robert Knox for dissection. After a single trial, he was convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. On the other hand, his partner William Hare escaped punishment only by testifying about the murders. To Ainsley, the preserved skeleton was horrifying. To Sherlock, it was beautiful.

"Well," she began. "At the risk of stating the obvious, it's been slit open."

"Precisely!" he exclaimed, beaming. "At Burke's sentencing, the judge added a special clause. Because he sold so many bodies to be dissected, his body was publicly dissected in kind. So many people wanted to see it, it nearly caused a riot. The professor even wrote out notes using the blood!"

"Charming," Ainsley muttered. "But I'm surprised you 'kept' that information, or whatever you say you do."

"Don't be silly," he scoffed. "I could never delete something as marvelous as the Burke and Hare murders. You know their killing spree lasted 10 months and no one noticed at all?" He chuckled sardonically. "Yet another example of the incompetency of the police."

"Shame you weren't around then to sniff him out."

"Yes, I know. It would've been great fun solving this case."

She couldn't bring herself to reply. The point of this all was to get Sherlock to have fun, and she supposed he was, but she could hardly keep herself from retching at the sight of all the preserved brains and hearts. As they walked past the life and death masks of Burke and Hare, she made the conscious decision to tune out Sherlock's running commentary, which often covered the more gruesome details of the various exhibits.

"Oh, yes!" he cried out suddenly, coming to a full halt in front of a greenish skeleton. "The remains of James Howison, more commonly known as the Cramond Murderer. Excellent story behind this one."

"Do I want to know?" Ainsley groaned under her breath. He didn't even seem to hear her.

"Paranoid schizophrenic. But of course, they didn't recognize schizophrenia in 1832. So when Howison started sucking his own blood and eating livers nearly raw, no one paid him any mind! A month later, he began to dissect a woman's face while she was _still living!" _

"Yup, I definitely didn't want to know," she managed.

"It's particularly interesting because he was the last criminal to be dissected after death. Normally, the bodies hanged criminals were used medically, like Burke's, but then came the Anatomy Act of 1832 (which was practically _written _by Burke and Hare), which claimed only relatives of the deceased could turn over the dead bodies."

He bounced to the next piece with an amazingly childlike grin on his face, Ainsley trailing behind. While it was customary to lower your voice in a museum, Sherlock couldn't seem to stop himself from shouting out the bloody back stories behind everything they saw. But though it may have been disturbing for her to listen to, it was definitely preferable to his crash when they transitioned from human skulls to animal ones.

"What's special about this one?" he demanded gruffly, appraising the bones of an Asian elephant.

"It's just an animal," Ainsley shrugged.

_"Boring," _he growled before speeding onwards.

"And this one, is this 'just an animal' too?" he spat, gesturing to a long dead chimpanzee.

"'Fraid so," she informed him apologetically.

"Boring! Boring, boring, _boring," _Sherlock snapped. Several people in the gallery turned to see the commotion. "Why would anyone ever want to see an ugly chimp?_" _At this point, he was attracting the attention of several security guards stationed around the room.

"Keep your voice down," Ainsley hissed, but he was unperturbed.

"Why aren't there more _people?" _he all but shouted. _"That's _what this place needs, more dead _people!" _

_"Sher-"_

"Excuse me, sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave the building," a burly woman with a walkie-talkie commanded, strolling over to where they stood.

"Why?" he shot back. "Have I killed someone?" The guard exchanged a nervous glance with her coworkers.

"I'm afraid you're disturbing the other patrons."

"I'm so sorry about him," Ainsley murmured, stepping forward. "He has, uh, Tourette's."

"I do _not!" _Sherlock protested. The woman raised her walkie-talkie to her lips to call for reinforcement, but before she could get there, he darted out his hand and knocked it to the ground. "You have no right to arrest me."

Immediately, officers started swarming the room, all headed towards Sherlock with a firm hand on their tasers.

"You _idiot," _Ainsley moaned. "Run!"

* * *

About five miles later, Ainsley came to the decision that they had finally lost the herd of concerned security guards chasing them. That being said, she wasted no time punching Sherlock in the gut.

"What the hell was that?" she growled as he doubled over, clutching his stomach.

"I was merely exercising my right to freedom of speech," he defended. She let out a bark of sardonic laughter.

"You have to understand, to the odd passerby, it sounded an awful lot like you were planning to kill some people in there, which is definitely not what I meant when I said you could inspiration for experiments!"

"Why would anybody think that?!"

"Oh, I don't know," she responded dumbly. "Maybe because you're a _psychopath?" _She slapped him one more time for good measure.

_"High. Functioning. Sociopath," _he ground out.

"I. Don't. Care," she shot back. "Just please try to think before you speak. Particularly when we're in a room filled with tourists."

"Oh, they probably enjoyed it," he waved her off. "Now they get to tell all their friends about the crazy man they saw in Scotland." Despite herself, Ainsley found herself chuckling along with him.

"You know, if I do say so myself, it would appear the crazy man was enjoying himself before the little incident," she teased. He hesitated.

"'Enjoying' is a strong word."

"Just admit it, Sherlock," she persisted. "You had fun, and I am winning the game _again." _

**A/N: Nice long chapter. Thoughts?  
**


	13. Chapter Twelve

**A/N: Hey there! First of all: I don't own Sherlock BBC. Second of all: I've never been to Scotland, so forgive me if I'm butchering it, but all the people in the museum last chapter WERE REAL. I know. People were ACTUALLY twisted enough to do all that stuff. Anyways, on with the story... DAY TWO OF THE SECOND GAME!**

Sherlock was confused, and that wasn't a feeling he particularly liked. It was 4:30 in the afternoon, and there was no sign of Ainsley, despite the fact that she'd arrived bright and early the day before. For a moment he was concerned that she was angrier than she let on about being chased out of that museum, but he quickly dismissed the idea. She hadn't liked the museum anyways; why would she want to stay there any longer than necessary?

Of course, as he waited, his mind couldn't help wandering to the case of Moriarty. As agreed, he and Ainsley hadn't done any research on the topic yesterday and they wouldn't do any for the rest of the week either, but that didn't necessarily mean he was ignoring it. After all, it was literally a matter of life and death to him. He couldn't just leave it alone.

Sipping on a homemade cup of tea (a recently acquired skill of his), he pulled a chair up to his computer and began combing over dozens of crimes and deciding whether or not they could be connected, taking into account everything from the various modus operandi to the confessions of the perpetrators. As usual, nothing jumped out at him, although he jotted down a few notes, just to be safe. Plus, just like Ainsley said, he liked to feel like he was getting something done.

"Sherlock!" a voice yelled through the door. It was immediately followed by three loud knocks. He slid his eyes closed for a moment. He should have known the peace wouldn't last forever. "Sherlock, open up! We have a reservation to get to!" Moodily, he stalked across the front room and swung open the door.

"What reservation would that be?" he sneered. Ainsley frowned.

"If you're in such a bad mood, maybe I should just go," she offered.

"Maybe you should. I was working." Her eyes widened.

"Are you aware that working is against the rules of the game?" she demanded. "If what you're saying is true, I win by default."

"Actually, the rules were that we couldn't work together," he corrected her. "My free time is _my _free time. I can do with it what I please." She bit her lip.

"I'll let it slide this time," she allowed. "But only because I'm in a good mood. We're doing one of my favorite things in the world tonight."

"And what would that be?" he wondered.

"If I tell you, you have to promise not to make fun."

"I'm going to find out eventually; might as well get it over with." Ainsley rolled her eyes.

"Fine," she gave in. "We are going on a ghost tour." She smiled proudly, like she'd just told him they'd won the lottery.

"A _ghost _tour?" he repeated incredulously. "What could I possibly enjoy on a ghost tour?"

"You never know," she shrugged. "Even _you _could get a kick out of laughing at the tourists. Bring a coat, though. It's freezing down there."

"'Down there?'" Sherlock reiterated, cocking his head. Ainsley smirked.

"I'm surprised you don't know already. We're going to Mary King's Close. It's underground." He snorted.

"As you know, I delete unimportant things. An underground alleyway in Scotland with reports of hauntings most definitely falls into that category."

"Did you _always _whine this much?" she inquired curiously. He ignored her and walked straight out the door.

"You said we had a reservation to make. In that case, we'd better go, shouldn't we?" Ainsley was left with no choice but to follow him into the night.

* * *

As expected, Mary King's Close was the definition of a tourist trap. The pair was surrounded with foreigners from all different countries: the Americas, France, Germany. Sherlock's upper lip curled in disgust at the mob of people all waiting to visit the legendary site.

"If you're trying to convince me to be more like the average person, this is not the way to go," he advised Ainsley snidely as they were lead down the stairs and into the close itself.

"Be nice," she warned under her breath. "Let's not have a repeat of yesterday."

"Please. The guards were clearly in the wrong-"

"Whatever you say," Ainsley sang under her breath. "Now shut up."

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man in 1640s style garb emerged. A glittering red cross was embroidered on his tunic, and he promptly introduced himself as Walter King, the Foul Clenger, an unsung hero who cleaned out rooms of the close after the occupants died of the plague. At the end of his spiel, a loud rattling pierced the narrow passage way.

"That would be the trapped spirits shaking their chains," he announced somberly.

"Dear God," Sherlock muttered. "Tell me this is a joke."

"We haven't even gotten to the best part," Ainsley whispered gleefully.

"As we walk down the streets of Old Edinburgh, the spectres we say beg the question: who is intruding on who in Mary King's Close?" the guide continued, gesturing to the clandestine rooms surrounding them.

"Whom," Sherlock murmured.

"What?"

"The correct wording there would be who is intruding on _whom," _he elaborated. "But, I suppose, if you're going to act like a moron, you may as well go all the way."

"Right, any chance you could roll back the attitude?" Ainsley requested. He only smirked in response.

They spent the majority of the tour exchanging barbs about the ridiculousness of the whole thing until Walter ushered them into a chamber he referred to as "Wee Annie's Room." At this, Sherlock noted that he'd never actually heard a Scottish person say "wee", forcing Ainsley to hit his arm rather forcefully.

"This room, is the room that haunts my dreams the most," Walter confided. "This is the room where a seven year old lassie-"

("They really do enjoy playing up the Scottish aspect of this, don't they?"

"Be quiet.")

"-was left to die of the sickness." He strolled in a dramatic circle, contorting his face into a heartbroken expression. "Terrified of catching the Black Death, her parents and brother left her lying on this cold, stone floor, without even her dolly to comfort her. I burned her body myself when she finally went to be with the Lord. It was a dreadful business, but what were we to do? Once you've caught the plague, there's no hope for a cure."

At this point, a small boy started whimpering softly against his mother's leg. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the child before he redirected his attention towards the front of the room.

"Do you feel how the room grows colder?" Walter continued. "It's Wee Annie herself, coming to look for a friend in death that she never had in life."

The crying became louder.

"And if you ever doubt that she's still here, think of this: Annie has been seen, limping around the close in the dark of the night. With no family to hold her as she died, she remains bound to this earth forever-"

Finally having had too much, the boy erupted into hysterical sobs. The guide, looking somewhat flustered, paused in his routine, watching while the worried mother stooped to comfort her son.

"It's just a story, Stanley," she assured him, rubbing his back soothingly. Her words did nothing to quiet the deafening howls.

"But- but- but _they saw it!" _Stanley wailed.

"Poor boy," Ainsley murmured, shaking her head sympathetically. Sherlock sighed grimly.

"Let me handle this," he said, stepping forward. She grabbed his arm before he could go any further.

"Sorry, you? With kids? I don't think so," she admonished. "His mum can take care of him."

"Trust me," he urged. The second her grip loosened on his arm, he strode to the front of the room, taking the guide's place.

"Right, I didn't want to ruin the tour for everyone, but I must be honest," he declared, rubbing his hands together. "If you didn't know already, this place is a fraud. There is no such things as ghosts, and never will be. If I'm correct (and I almost certainly am), there was a originally a bog or marshland somewhere nearby the close. It is entirely likely that residents mistook the shadows on the bog for ghosts, and I do not doubt that gases from the bog caused most vivid hallucinations, which, in the 1600s, could only be explained by ghosts.

"As for the horror stories of the plague, I can see no reason this area of Edinburgh would get suffer more deaths than any other part of Scotland, so I must also debunk all these tales of 'Wee Annie', or whatever her name is. In fact, based on the architecture of some of the buildings, I would say the close was actually lived in until the early 1900s, at which point it was converted into the tourist trap you all seem to have fallen into. That being said, terribly sorry to ruin your fanciful ideas of ghosts." He paused, and squatted down to the little boy's height. "So, Stanley. Do you think there's anything to be scared of now?" When the boy still nodded, he chuckled slightly. "Well, then I'm afraid I can't say anything else except to promise you that people who are dead stay dead."

With that, he walked straight out of the room, the rest of the bewildered group trailing behind him.

"Sorry, did I just see the great Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, comfort a crying child?" Ainsley said, awestruck.

"Me?" he laughed. "Not at all. That, my dear Ainsley, was science."

**A/N: Again, I haven't been to Scotland, so this is all based on things I've read and heard. But Wee Annie is a real myth, and all the facts Sherlock used to disprove ghosts are true too. If you live/have been to Scotland, tell me some good places to make Sherlock and Ainsley go! And review too, please!**


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N: Hi guys! Just wanted to say thanks to Kerkerian-Horizon for clearing some things up about the Mary King's Close tour for me. It turns out the reports my friends gave me about the whole affair were greatly exaggerated, so at some point after the story is finished, I'll probably edit some stuff (maybe just make them go on a different ghost tour). For now, I think it serves the purpose it needed to serve; after all, it's just fiction. Friendly reminder that I'd always love some help like this if I get something totally wrong. And now, on with the story!  
**

**...Oh, yeah, right. I also don't own Sherlock BBC. NOW on with the story.**

It would appear that Ainsley thoroughly enjoyed messing with Sherlock's timeline. Her arrival times varied had already gone from 11 AM to 5 in the evening, and now, perhaps most irritatingly, she was banging quite loudly on his door at the ungodly hour of 9 o'clock.

_"Shut up!" _he roared, thrashing around under his blanket. "Shut. Up!"

"I didn't say anything!" Ainsley yelled cheekily through the door, now knocking even more forcefully.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he growled under his breath, yanking the covers off and wrapping himself in a dressing gown. Still muttering angrily, he hobbled to the door and swung it open. "What is it?"

"It's time to go," Ainsley announced. She frowned, taking in his appearance. "But you'll want to be dressed where we're going."

"Last time someone told me that, I ended up naked in Buckingham Palace," he said absentmindedly.

"Sorry, what?"

"You've read John's blog, you know what I'm talking about. _A Scandal in Belgravia_, is that what he called it?" he grumbled.

"Right," Ainsley remembered. "Guess I forgot who I was talking to."

"Then I suggest you try to remember while I get dressed," he droned. "Help yourself to food if you find any, but I can't promise you'll like what you find in the fridge."

"I don't know if the risk is worth it," she dismissed him, throwing herself on the couch. "I might end up retching all over one of your precious experiments."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Sherlock mused as he retreated into his bedroom.

He got dressed in his usual outfit: navy blue shirt, black pants, and black blazer. Even though it hadn't changed at all from what he used to wear, his blond hair made him look entirely different. Some people would argue that his choice in clothes was simply boring, but in his mind, his companions wore more than enough color for the both of them. John had those hideous jumpers with snowflakes or something all over them and Ainsley inevitable incorporated some kind of quirky pattern into her clothing.

Case in point: her outfit today. She wore a plum skirt that buckled across her waist with a darker purple button-down dotted with black circles ringed in the same shade of plum. The pattern on her black tights was sort of impossible to describe, except to say that it involved some vertical lines with horizontal diamonds in between. For shoes, she had on a pair of black over-the-knee boots. The outfit on a whole was a bit more put-together than usual, so they were probably going somewhere nice. Not too nice, though, since she couldn't afford to waste too much money. She made a point of wearing flat boots so there was probably some walking involved.

Once Sherlock was satisfied with his deductions about where they were headed, he strode coolly back into the living room. Ainsley, who had been flipping through the paper while she waited, smiled when he walked in.

"So we're going somewhere a little more quintessentially Scottish today," she explained without being asked.

"Yes, I know. Edinburgh Castle, I'd say," Sherlock guessed. Her mouth opened and closed several times like a fish.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?" she whined.

"Don't waste your breath," he advised her. "You can take me out of the consulting detective, but you can't take the consulting detective out of me."

* * *

Edinburgh Castle was impressive, even to Sherlock. The sprawling fortress practically dominated the skyline of Edinburgh and basically screamed 'future Disney princess movie location.' Here, the crowds of people eager to get in seemed more warranted than the other places Ainsley had taken him. Still, that didn't mean he was particularly optimistic about the day. It was highly unlikely he'd find anything he liked inside.

"Cool, isn't it?" Ainsley breathed as the crush of people carried them into the Queen Anne Building. It didn't look any different than Sherlock had expected, but strangely enough, he found that he didn't mind it.

"It's nice," he admitted, examining the ornamental swords on the wall.

"Now, they don't appreciate people who make unnecessary scenes here very much," she hinted.

"Me? Making a scene? What would make you think that?" She rolled her eyes.

"Just behave yourself, okay?"

"I always behave myself," he insisted. She furrowed her brow skeptically.

"Agree to disagree," she suggested.

She wove through the pack of tourists expertly, leaving Sherlock to rudely force them out of his way. When he jostled an old woman to the ground, Ainsley turned and sent him a firm look, eyes flickering to the senior citizen.

"My apologies," Sherlock murmured insincerely, cruising forwards. Once they were out of the front hall, the crowd thinned, just like that of any other museum, and he was finally able to catch up. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Crown jewels." Ainsley smirked at him. "The ones Moriarty _didn't _steal," she added.

"Excellent. I've always wanted to see those."

"Really?"

"No."

"Stop being such a negative Nancy," she chided him. "You should feel privileged that I'm taking you to see the Honors of Scotland."

"Privileged? Why?" Sherlock asked. "I was under the impression anyone could see them."

"Yeah," she acknowledged. "But you'd never go on your own, which means you'd be missing out. So that means it is my responsibility to take you."

"Yes, because how could I ever survive without seeing an ancient crown in a glass case?" he sighed sarcastically.

"It's so much more than a crown. It's a crown, _and _a scepter, _and _a sword," she joked. "Then we can go see the Stone of Destiny."

"'Stone of Destiny'? Sounds like a bad movie name," he sniped.

"You need to learn some respect," Ainsley teased in response.

"So I've been told."

Finally, they reached the famed case of the Honors. A multitude of people was cluttered around the glittering, red crown, embellished with expensive gems. There were even more security guards stationed at the corners of the room than the other areas of the castle, all of them assessing the patrons carefully, as if someone was going to jump through the glass and grab the jewels at any moment. Ainsley tugged Sherlock closer to the case.

He attempted to keep an open mind about the golden sword and scepter, but he couldn't help wondering how anyone could possibly find this entertaining. What was it that made normal people so caught up with material things they would never own? Why wouldn't they rather sit at home and read, or do something that might actually prove to be useful? No matter how brightly it glittered, the crown was just a crown. It didn't possess the magical power to make you king of the world or anything. After you looked, you went back to living your normal life, almost as though you never saw it at all.

"I still think this is silly," he told Ainsley from the corner of his mouth. Her eyes twinkled.

"Then maybe you'd be interested in hearing my crown jewels related story?" she offered. Without waiting for a response, she launched into the tale.

"When I was little, my mum took me and Elsa here to see everything, but she took us super early in the day so we'd beat the crowds. When we came into this room, a guard told us we were lucky. We didn't understand why until we looked in and saw Princess Diana showing the jewels to William and Harry."

"You're lying," Sherlock determined shrewdly.

"I'm being totally serious!" she protested. "Scout's honor. I remember I just kept asking my mum how Diana was a princess if she wasn't wearing a fancy ballgown or a tiara. You can ask Elsa; it really happened."

"Ridiculous," he spat, but there was no denying the hint of a smile on his face.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent wandering around the castle lazily. They stopped at all the highlights advertised on the map they'd been given, from the Regimental Museums to the Prisons of War. None of it interested Sherlock much, although he was enjoying himself. It was rather fun to joke about all the frivolity with Ainsley.

By the time the one o'clock gunshot rang through the castle, the two had settled in St. Margaret's Chapel, the oldest surviving building in Edinburgh. Sherlock perched on one of the pews, fighting off boredom and watching as Ainsley wandered around, looking wide-eyed at the stain glass windows.

"It's so _old," _she breathed reverently.

"That would be the point," he reminded her. She glared at him halfheartedly.

"Be nice," she scolded. "We're in a house of God."

"Whatever you say," he replied. She paused, then tip-toed over to sit next to him.

"Sherlock," she began carefully. "Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously. You just did."

"Wha-. Oh. Right. Sorry." She breathed heavily. "Anyways, I was just wondering... You don't have to answer if you don't want to..."

"Get on with it," he pressed gruffly.

"Do you believe in God?" she wondered. For a moment, he didn't move. Even Sherlock knew this was a sensitive topic for most people.

"I see no reason to," he answered delicately. "Do you?" She shrugged.

"I guess so," she revealed. "Not in the way some people do, though. You know, not an all-seeing, all-knowing man in the sky. But I don't think people are just gone after they die. At least, I hope they're not. You know, people like my parents, who should've lived longer... I just believe they're out there, somewhere. Maybe not even watching. Just, I don't know, laughing or joking with each other. And I know I could be completely wrong, but even if science is right... If we're all just random collections of atoms that will never mean anything, then it doesn't matter what I think. So I might as well believe for the time being. Make myself feel better about the world." Sherlock didn't say anything for a while. Then, suddenly-

"I think," he began. "I think, that if God exists, then He is most certainly present in places like this."

**A/N: Super long chapter in honor of the first day of filming for Series 3! I didn't mean for it to get so religious, but it kinda came out like that, I guess. I hope no one's offended by anything they say; I'm not personally very religious, but if you are, I totally respect that. By the way, the story about seeing Diana at the crown jewels is true. It happened to me and my sisters in the Tower of England! As always, please review! I love to hear from you. I'll try to update soon!**


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Sherlock was not a man to make the same mistake twice, which meant at 9 AM on Thursday morning, he was totally prepared to be dragged out of his apartment for Ainsley's next activity. However, that did not mean he was all that happy about it.

Grumpily, he planted himself on his couch and quite literally began to stare blankly at the wall opposite him. It was so _ugly_ and, worst of all, _boring_. Just a plain, concrete slab in the middle of the room. He had the distinct urge to shoot it. Maybe not a smiley face this time, that was too Baker Street-y... Perhaps a star? Or a peace sign. A peace sign could be sort of funny, in an ironic way.

He squinted and cocked his head to the left, picturing how his design would look. Not too disastrous, he didn't think. _I should have gone into interior design, _he joked grimly to himself.

Decided on what he was going to do, he began to collect the supplies he would need. The list wasn't long, thankfully. He grabbed a can of purple spray paint from his dresser and dug his handgun out of the back of his closet. It was time to commence the redecoration process.

With the utmost precision, he drew a near perfect circle on the wall with the spray paint. Then, more haphazardly, he colored three lines inside the circle. One going straight down, and two on either side of that one. Stepping back, he admired his work. _Excellent. _

Now that his target was clear, the fun could start. He took five long strides backwards and placed his finger on the trigger of the gun. _3, 2..._

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock lurched around, still brandishing his weapon. He couldn't help but be puzzled when he found a very scared, very confused Ainsley staring at him in horror.

"Could you watch where you point that thing?" she squeaked. Obligingly, he lowered his hand.

"How did you get here?" he asked.

"I _told _you, you have a really nice landlord," she explained, eyes still trained on the gun. "A landlord who doesn't deserve to have one of his flats destroyed by a madman."

"I thought you said my landlord was a perv?" Sherlock wondered.

"He is," she allowed. "But you still can't shoot down his wall."

"But I'm _bored," _he roared.

"Dear God," Ainsley muttered. "I'm literally dealing with a three year old."

"I heard that."

"You were meant to." She scampered over to the wall to examine the damage already done. Carefully, she ran a finger over the still-drying paint, smudging the peace sign.

"You've ruined it!" Sherlock yowled.

"Oh, _I've _ruined it, have I?" Ainsley shot back. "My apologies."

"It's your own fault; I thought you were going to be here at nine."

"I come when I want to come," she shrugged. "Anyways, we couldn't do what I want to do at nine."

"Yes, and what exactly is it that you want to do?"

"You'll see," she said mysteriously. "But first, we need to run some errands."

* * *

If Sherlock thought grocery shopping on his own was bad, grocery shopping with Ainsley was hell. She was one of those people who actually liked to talk to the cashier and workers about what they were getting rather than just buying something and leaving. It seemed like they'd been in the store for hours when she finally got around to picking anything out.

"Sherlock, do you like onions?" she called curiously, looking at an array of sandwiches and pastries in a glass case.

"I'm not hungry," he responded unhelpfully.

"Sucks, 'cuz you're eating," she said sharply. "So you might as well tell me if you like onions or not."

"I'll eat them," he admitted after a moment's hesitation.

"That's all I needed to know," she smiled, pointing out what she wanted to the man running the stand. Sherlock nearly started banging his head against the wall when they launched into a long talk about the quality of the food they were buying.

"Can't we just go?" he hissed.

"Patience," she smirked back, grabbing the plastic bags and strolling out of the store. Sherlock trotted alongside her.

"So, where's this little picnic taking place?"

"Who said anything about a picnic?" She wrinkled her nose.

"You did," he informed her haughtily. "Unless that food isn't for us."

"Every time," she mumbled under her breath before looking back to face him. "But, yeah. As usual, you're right. It occurred to me we're not doing anything that people do regularly, so I figured we should do something really normal, like going to a park."

"Oh, and can we go on the swings too?" he chirped falsely.

"God, you're annoying."

* * *

Holyrood Park was by far the least crowded activity of the week. Sure, a few families milled around, but for the most part, they had the area entirely to themselves. Ainsley looked back at Sherlock proudly.

"Isn't it pretty out here?" she squealed, pulling a rolled up blanket from her bag and laying it on the ground. Sherlock looked at it disdainfully.

"That's where we're eating?" he sneered. She rolled her eyes in response.

"I'm sorry, but if you have mutilated arms lying around on your kitchen table, you don't get to say picnics are gross just because of a little dirt," she told him.

"I never said gross," he defended, reluctantly settling down on the blanket. "Just... unsanitary."

"It's only unsanitary if you're eating mud pies for dessert," she insisted.

She reached over and pulled out the meal, spreading it neatly across the blanket. Picking up one of the meat filled bridies she'd ordered, she opened her mouth as wide it could possibly go and tore off a huge bite. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"That's not very good manners," he scolded her.

"Buw iwt's dewishus!" she exclaimed, mouth still full of food. After a good minute of chewing, she washed it down with a bottle of water. "Since when do you care about manners, anyway?"

"I've always cared about manners," he said quietly.

"People who care about manners don't shoot the walls of a rented flat," she protested.

"That's different," he explained.

"Yeah, okay," she scoffed, taking a smaller bite. "Boy, whoever taught you your manners sure did a stellar job if they got you to take appropriately sized bites."

"My mother," Sherlock said shortly after a brief pause. Ainsley frowned, already distracted from the conversation at hand.

"Sorry, what?"

"My mother taught me my manners," he elaborated. "She ate dinner with Mycroft and I on Sundays and she hated to see us behaving badly."

"I see," she managed uncomfortably. "Well... Where is she now?"

"Oh, I don't know," he shrugged airily. "I imagine she's somewhere in France living a luxurious life with her lover. We haven't spoken since she left."

"I'm sorry," Ainsley told him seriously, looking him directly in the eye.

"It's not your fault," he dismissed her, glancing away.

They both stayed silent and took in their surroundings. Directly in front of them was Arthur's Seat, with it's craggy cliff sides and lush grasses. It was like the entire park was stuck in a time capsule, waiting to be opened. While the rest of the city's buildings towered above the trees, Holyrood Park was completely natural, with not one piece of technology from the 21st century. It looked a bit like the setting of a movie.

"I used to come here a lot with my friends at uni," Ainsley said suddenly. "We would sit here for hours on the weekends. I knew this one girl who always really wanted to go swimming in the lake like a crazy person and we'd have to all hold her back." Sherlock studied her carefully.

"You really loved university, didn't you?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "If I was willing to commit a crime for it, then yeah, I guess I did."

"Why don't you get your degree now?" he prodded.

"It's the life of a convict," she joked. "Nowhere will take me."

"You're smart enough to find somewhere," he insisted. She clasped her hands over her heart sarcastically.

"Well, if the great Sherlock Holmes says it, it _must _be true!" she gasped.

"I'm being serious, Ainsley. You could go back."

"I know," she sighed. "But back to what? My friends have all graduated. I'm nearly 27. I'm already broke. What's the point?"

"Some would say getting an education is worth it," he pointed out. She raised an eyebrow.

"I don't know if I can take that seriously coming from a man who doesn't know anything about the solar system."

"You could delete it later," he suggested. She smiled appreciatively and lay back on the blanket, squinting at the sun.

"I could," she admitted. "But this is my life now. I've been to jail, I'm unemployed, and my greatest source of entertainment is trying to get a self-proclaimed sociopath to loosen up. I guess that's kind of horrible, but in a weird way, I'm happy."

"Well... Good."

**A/N: Possibly the longest chapter yet. It was very... talk-y, I guess. I'm afraid Sherlock might be a tad OOC. What did you think? **


	16. Chapter Fifteen

It was hard to describe how Sherlock felt when Friday afternoon came and went with no sign of Ainsley. On one hand, it was relaxing. He lounged in bed and didn't get dressed and wondered what would happen if he shot holes in the wall now that he was really, truly alone. On the other hand, he was like a coiled spring, ready to pop. Over the past few days, he found that the longer he waited, the less he enjoyed whatever scheme the redhead had up her sleeve.

Her eventual entrance was dramatic as ever. She pounded on the door for a good five minutes and then shouted threats through the wall ("Sherlock, if you're not ready to go at this hour, then so help me God...") Sherlock, however, may have found it all a bit more amusing than she did, seeing as she fell face first the second he opened the door.

"Could you give me some warning, next time?" she grumbled, pushing herself off the floor and dusting off her clothes.

"You knocked. Did you really think I would just leave you there and the door would never open?" he said.

"Dunno. You can be quite moody." He shot her a look.

"I'm assuming you haven't eaten?" she continued.

"Why should I eat, if I'm not hungry?" he questioned, sounded like some ancient Greek philosopher.

"To avoid looking like a meth addict?" she suggested. He ignored the comment completely.

"When are you going to tell me where we're going?" he asked instead. She furrowed her brow.

"Haven't you worked it out already?"

"I have a general idea of what we're doing," he shrugged. "But I gathered you liked to be the one to tell." She smiled softly at his uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, but didn't mention it. She knew perfectly well that if he got one inkling that he was acting like a decent human being - _poof, _he would go back to being an insensitive prick.

"Well, I was thinking a lot about what you said yesterday, about me loving school so much," she started. "And I realized what I really loved was being silly and having fun and not caring, not actually going to school. So tonight we're going to the best place to do that."

"Which would be...?" he prompted.

"We are going to a pub," she announced. "And if you don't have fun, then you can't possibly be human."

"What would we do at a _pub?" _he sneered, looking like she'd suggested they do dumpster diving.

"What normal people do," Ainsley replied. "Drown our sorrows, of which I'm sure you have plenty."

"Sounds like a waste of time," he judged.

"'Time you enjoy wasting, is not wasted'," she quoted.

"Whoever said that was an idiot."

"It was _John Lennon,"_ she told him incredulously. Sherlock cocked his head, racking his brains for a memory of this Lennon person.

"Ah, yes," he blurted suddenly. "He was in some band, wasn't he?"

_"Some band?" _she breathed, horrified. "He was in The Beatles! And then he went on to become one of the greatest solo artists ever!"

"Irrelevant."

"Oh, come on," she prodded. "You _have _to like John Lennon."

"Obviously, I don't."

_"Imagine all the people," _she warbled, extremely off-key. Sherlock winced. _"Sharing all the world!"_

"Shut up!" he commanded. She smirked.

"Only if you cooperate with me." He sighed.

"Fine."

* * *

The pub was crowded and sweaty and all together not what Sherlock liked. At every corner of the room, women were entangling themselves around men, and vice versa. The building vibrated with the volume of the music. The bartender was a sleazy man in his late thirties who chain-smoked and hit on every female who tried to order a drink. Drunken punches were thrown regularly. And yet, Ainsley seemed to be enjoying herself.

"Isn't this great?" she hollered over the music from the bar stool beside him. Sherlock glowered at her.

"I don't see how you can possibly think _this _is 'great'," he spat.

"Get over yourself," she laughed, nudging his arm with her elbow. "Just because not everyone from here went to Cambridge, doesn't mean they're bad people."

"Not at all," he agreed. "I know they're bad people simply because they're behaving monstrously."

"They're drunk!" she shrugged. "They can't help it."

"I don't act like this when I'm drunk," he said snottily, turning his nose up. Ainsley's eyes widened.

"You've been drunk before?"

"Of course I have," he growled. "I was a student once, too. And I can honestly say I was never half as moronic as these apes seem to be."

"Then prove it," she challenged.

"Wha-"

"Bartender!" she hollered, banging on the table. "My friend here needs a drink!"

Almost immediately, Sherlock was presented with an overflowing pint of beer. Cautiously, he grasped the handle and raised it to his lips. Ainsley cackled loudly beside him.

"Not too bad, is it?" she chuckled. He didn't reply, instead tipping the cup closer to his lips.

It wasn't quite as good as smoking, and he still preferred whiskey to beer, but it was good nonetheless. As an emotionless robot, it normally took ages for alcohol to have any effect on him, yet he felt oddly giddy already. It was probably a psychosomatic sort of thing; he saw everyone else drunk, so he imagined he was drunk. Still, he didn't have any problem with that. Ainsley was right when she said he had plenty of sorrows to drown. Methodically, he allowed himself a sip for each one: John, Molly, Lestrade... Even Anderson and Donovan made the cut.

He pulled himself back into the real world when a burly man sidled up and plopped down next to Ainsley. A strange sensation swirled in his stomach as he watched them talk.

"My name's Sebastian," the man informed her.

"I didn't ask," she replied snidely, not bothering to look at him. Sherlock smirked, feeling weirdly proud of her.

"Do you want a drink?" Sebastian pressed.

"I'm good, thanks."

"You sure 'bout that?" he continued. "It's just one little drink."

"Sorry, bud," she sighed. "But I am nowhere near drunk enough to find you attractive."

"Then let me get you a drink."

"Look," she began, finally turning to face him. Her eyes flashed angrily. "I'm flattered and all, but I'm not interested. So _leave me alone." _

Sebastian held his hands up in surrender, pouting. Sullenly, he wobbled away, off to find another woman to prey on.

"Bloody idiot," Ainsley muttered.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, feeling significantly more sober than he had two minutes ago. "Still having fun?"

"Are you suggesting I'd let that lecher ruin my night?" she drawled. "We've barely even started! I just need another drink, and then I can forget about that moron and the fun will _really _begin."

* * *

A countless number of drinks later, Ainsley was completely and utterly intoxicated. Sherlock, on the other hand, was only slightly tipsy and determined to stay that way. It would appear that his friend got a little rowdy after a few too many beers, and he wanted to be sure he would be able to restrain her.

"One more drink," she begged, slouching over her empty glass. "Just one."

"I don't think that's necessary," Sherlock told her. "You're plenty drunk already." She pouted childishly at him.

_"Pleeeeaaaasssseeee?" _she whined, drawing out the word.

"No," he said simply. Her friendly pout morphed into an angry glare.

"Party-pooper," she declared, pointing at him. "That's what you are! Why can't you ever just _relax? _It's one drink!"

"One of us has to stay sane," he argued.

"That's ridiculous. I'm not even that drunk," she slurred. "I can still say my ABCs backwards and everything. Z, Y, X..." She cocked her head, frowning. "Actually, I can't even do that sober, so it doesn't really matter."

"We're going home," he decided. Ainsley danced away from him.

"God, for someone who hates being bored so much, you sure are _boringgg," _she groaned. "I'll find someone who isn't boring! I- I know!" Before Sherlock could stop her, she'd climbed on top of the bar. "Is a guy named Sebastian still here?" she yelled as loudly as she could.

"For God's sake," Sherlock swore as the same man from before wove through the crowd. "Ainsley, _get down." _

"Okay, okay," she agreed, hopping back onto her bar stool. "We can go. Just let me talk to Sebastian really quick." As if by magic, the man himself appeared at her side.

"You called, m'lady?" he asked, kissing her hand. She giggled wildly.

"Do you think I'm too drunk?" she demanded.

"I think you're just fine," he informed her, putting his hands on her waist.

"See?" she said to Sherlock. "I'm fine!" Sebastian inched closer and closer to him, causing an uncomfortable flare in Sherlock's stomach. Anger boiled inside him until he couldn't take it any longer. Just one wrong move, _just _one-

_Thwack. _He swung his fist into Sebastian's face the moment his hands began to wander.

"What the hell?" the man moaned, clutching his blackening eye. Sherlock ignored him, instead grabbing Ainsley's wrist forcefully.

"Let's go," he ground out furiously. This time, she didn't even try to protest.

* * *

One of the distinct disadvantages of Ainsley being so very wasted was that she could not walk very well on her own. With every step, she ran the risk of toppling into the road, until Sherlock finally wrapped an arm around her waist and basically dragged her into his building. While he probably should have returned her to her own flat, he was in far too bad a mood to see Elsa, who would inevitably pepper him with questions about Ainsley. Besides, his building was closer to that god-awful pub, and thus there was more of a chance she would actually be able to stay awake until they arrived.

After spending fifteen minutes helping her up the stairs, Sherlock thrust her into his room.

"Bed. Now," he ordered, pointing.

"You'll have to take me to dinner first," she teased mischievously. He rolled his eyes.

"Go to sleep." He watched her collapse on the mattress and, satisfied she'd be alright, turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" Ainsley whimpered suddenly. "Sit with me."

She patted the area next to her invitingly. Slowly, Sherlock tip-toed over and perched on the bed, staying as still as he possibly could.

"What is this supposed to accomplish?" he asked robotically.

"Talking helps me fall asleep," she explained drowsily.

"Oh." He paused. "What do you want to talk about?" She didn't reply, but he knew she was still awake because he could hear her breathing. It wasn't quite steady enough for her to be sleeping.

"Want to know something really horrible?" she whispered eventually.

"If you want to tell me."

"Today was my mom's birthday," she breathed. "And Elsa spent the day with my dad." For a sociopath, Sherlock felt a remarkable amount of empathy towards her. Maybe it was the way her voice hitched in the middle of the sentence or the fact that she'd gotten unbelievably drunk just so she wouldn't have to deal with the pain, but it made him feel hollow somehow.

"Should you be with her?" he murmured.

"Maybe," she sighed. "But she never expects me to come. I tell her I still miss her too much and stuff, which I guess is sorta true, but the real reason I can't go is because I killed her."

"You didn't kill her," Sherlock corrected. "Moriarty did."

"Technically," she admitted. "But you would think I should have known what was going to happen. If that man was vicious enough to ask a stranger to kill for him, why would he hesitate in getting even?"

"You didn't know who he was," he insisted. "It's not your fault."

"Even if that's not true, it's very nice of you to say," she mumbled.

He didn't reply.

"Sherlock," she said after a while, sounding like she was on the verge of tears. "Will you do something for me?"

"What would that be?" he asked cautiously after a moment's hesitation.

"Call your mom," she suggested gently. "Because I don't have one and now I'm alone. But you're alone, even though you don't have to be."

"I'm not alone," he protested. "I have John and... and you."

"Why did you leave John, then?" she wondered. "If he made you not alone and you made him not alone, why did you go?"

"I didn't want him to get hurt," he explained evenly. "Moriarty's minions are too dangerous."

"If you were too scared to let your best friend help you... Why are you letting me?" He sucked in his breath.

"To be honest, I'm not quite sure," he sputtered, feeling illogically embarrassed. Why _was _he letting Ainsley help him? Didn't he care that she could die?

"It's okay," she soothed him, like she was reading his mind. "I don't mind getting hurt. If it means you're not alone, I don't mind." She laughed melodically to herself. "And if you ever don't want me to help you anymore, just talk to me. Don't throw yourself off of a building to get rid of me, okay?"

"I won't," he promised, looking over at her. Her eyes were fluttering closed and her breathing had evened out. As the last of her consciousness left her, he got up and tip-toed out of the room, collapsing on the couch. For a brief moment he wished life could always be like this, but as soon as it came, he carefully separated the thought and deleted it. In the morning, he would have John and Moriarty and the entire world to worry about, no matter how much he hoped it would all go away. So he might as well enjoy the peace while it lasted, savoring the calm before the inevitable storm.

**A/N: Aw. A little fluffy. Isn't Sherlock adorable? And who do you think this Sebastian guy is? Review please!**

**P.S. Also, just putting it out there that this is the longest chapter yet, at 2,401 words (not including this note)! Woohoo! **


	17. Chapter Sixteen

8 in the morning was probably too early in the morning to wake someone with an inevitably horrible hangover, but Sherlock didn't care. In fact, it was impressive he waited so long. After being struck with insomnia in the early hours of the morning, he'd continually mulled over the idea of waking Ainsley up at 5:30 as revenge before he finally decided to spare her until a more acceptable time. And now that the sun was up and shining in the sky, that time had definitely come.

Feeling slightly merciful, he shook two aspirins into the palm of his hand and filled a glass with water. He placed the supplies on his bedside table. The next logical step was, of course, to pull every shade in the flat open and watch as the light woke her up naturally. An evil grin on his face, he leaned against the wall and waited for the show to begin.

_"What the fu-"_ Ainsley grunted as she rolled off the bed, onto the ground. She slapped her hands over her eyes, whimpering in pain at the bright light.

"Morning sunshine," Sherlock smirked. She wheeled around to face him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here-" She stopped and the realization dawned on her face. "Shit," she muttered. "I'm an idiot."

"Glad we agree," he sniped. "Aspirin's on the table." Desperately, she groped the nightstand for the precious pills, swallowing them dry.

"Thanks. For last night, I mean." She paused. "Not for waking me up. That was just cruel."

"You were going to have to face the world eventually," he shrugged.

"I'm guessing you didn't tell Elsa where I was last night?" she sighed. He shook his head. Anxiously, she checked her phone for any messages. "Yup. 51 new texts, all from Elsa Boyd. I'm sure she's thrilled with me right now." Sherlock hesitated before responding.

"I suppose she was worrying about you more than usual," he commented. Ainsley looked up at him uncomfortably.

"'Cuz of my mom's birthday?" He nodded. "Look, I'm sorry about burdening all that on you. You don't have to worry about any of that; I was just..." She sighed again. "I was _really _drunk."

"I noticed," he observed dryly. "Coffee?" She nodded, smiling fleetingly at him as he walked into the kitchen.

Robotically, he rooted in the cupboard for the necessary ingredients. Coffee beans, obviously. Water was in the sink. Sugars for him. Ainsley took milk, which would be in the fridge, if he hadn't thrown it out to make room for the cow head he was testing...

"Sherlock?" Ainsley called, stumbling into the kitchen, clutching her head. "What does 'ebb' mean?"

"Ebb," he began automatically. "Verb. To flow back or away, as the water of a tide. There are four other definitions, one of which is also a verb, three of which are nouns-"

"No, I know that," she stopped him. "I mean, why have a got a slip of paper in my back pocket saying 'ebb'? Did.. Did you put it there?"

"What are you talking about?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes. She held out the paper and he snatched it greedily.

Written on a typewriter; that much was obvious from the paper, ink, and font. Whoever typed it erred a few times, there was a string of crossed out letters before the word itself. All capital letters, which could mean something. It had been torn, not cut, from the rest of the page. Beyond that, it was difficult to tell much. The person that sent the message had been very clever not to use his or her own handwriting. It made it infinitely harder to distinguish who it was from. _Perhaps it was from an older person,_ he speculated. Not many young people had typewriters, after all.

"It could mean nothing," Ainsley admitted when Sherlock stayed silent. "But- I mean, it seems very personal-"

"Personal?" Sherlock barked. "How so?"

"Well, I mean, it's written on a typewriter, isn't it?" she pointed out. "And, you know, I'm writing my book on a typewriter-"

"Of course!" he shouted. She winced, clamping her hands over her still-ringing ears. He didn't bother to apologize, instead stepping forward and grabbing her by the shoulders. "Ainsley, I want you to know that you have done something exceedingly rare by picking up on something that I missed. I'm happy to tell you, you might not be a _total _imbecile."

"Gee, thanks," she muttered. "But, uh, what exactly do you think it's supposed to _mean?" _He stiffened.

"I don't know," he said solemnly.

"So then what do we do?" she pressed.

"We wait," he began. "For what is sure to be a most interesting show."

**A/N: It's pretty short, but I DID just post a super long chapter. I'll try to update again later, but as a warning, I'm going on vacation tomorrow so updates might be a little bit more spread out. Review and tell me what you think EBB means! There's a hint somewhere in the chapter ;)**


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Ainsley was no fun when she was worried. And she had been worried ever since she got the 'EBB' note three days ago, which was far too long for Sherlock to go without anyone interesting around. Every time saw her, she would simply sulk and bite her nails and beg him to figure out more about the sender. She wasn't even interested in the game anymore, which had been her idea in the first place. It was like that puny piece of paper had erased everything that she was.

Sherlock, predictably, didn't understand her concern. It was simply a puzzle, one he would inevitable solve. In the meantime, it served as a fun distraction from his mundane life. John would probably say he was being insensitive, but he didn't care. He just wanted Ainsley back - the Ainsley that screamed at him for smoking and helped him solve crimes, not the one that could hardly breathe without looking over her shoulder.

"Have you found anything?" she demanded anxiously, looking up from the couch. Since she slept in Sherlock's flat, she was almost magically immune to the body parts scattered around and agreed to work there every once in a while.

"In the five minutes since you last asked?" he clarified. "No." She sighed.

"Right. Sorry," she murmured bashfully, squirming in her seat. "I'm just still freaked out, I guess."

"I've noticed," he said. She looked at him carefully.

"Aren't you?" she pressed. "That note could only be from one of Moriarty's minions, couldn't it? It was probably some kind of threat; you can't possibly just be _okay _with it-"

"I'm more than okay," he insisted. "I'm exhilarated. Aren't you?"

"Sherlock," Ainsley began brokenly. Her lips turned downwards, making her look hopelessly sad. "Any moment, us or anyone we care about could be killed."

_"Exactly!" _he exclaimed. "It's glorious, isn't it?"

"This is my _family," _she managed, horrified.

"Don't be boring," he dismissed her. An angry light flared in her eyes.

"Boring?" she repeated hollowly. "You might have forgotten, but the last time I got mixed up in something like this, my mother died and my father nearly did. And I have to live with that every single day until I die. You can't possibly... _want _that."

"It doesn't matter what I want," he said. "It is what it is. I simply don't let it ruin me." She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to steady yourself.

"I think you need to see something," she whispered. "Come with me." He froze.

"Where are we going?" Ainsley bit her lip.

"We're going..." Her voice hitched and she trailed off before starting again. "We're going to see my dad."

* * *

Sherlock didn't get nervous very often. He saw things before they came and prepared himself for them accordingly; it was his job to know what was next. But now, following an entranced Ainsley through Scotland, anxiety overwhelmed him. He wasn't good around injured or ill people. He didn't know how to tap into his emotions properly and try to comfort them. And here he was, walking right into a hospice.

"He wasn't always here," she explained as they walked, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "He used to just live in a regular hospital. But, um, when the car crashed, there was all this fire, and he inhaled so much smoke... And they couldn't avoid it any longer, I guess." She sounded like she was fighting hard not to cry, and her posture supported the theory. "He never really healed properly and now... It's only a matter of time."

Sherlock didn't know how to reply, so he opted to stay silent. It was better that he not get involved in these things; it only ever caused trouble. So they fought through the hoard of people around them in silence, each lost in their own little world. Ainsley's breathing was distinctly heavier, he noticed. _Don't make her cry, _he prayed silently. If there was anything he didn't know how to do, it was how to interact with a crying woman.

Suddenly, Ainsley was jostled sharply to the left. Caught off guard, she wobbled a bit before leaning on a store window to regain her balance.

"Watch it," a man scolded her before being whisked away by the mob. _That voice, _Sherlock thought. _Where have I heard that voice?_

"Guess I should be more careful," Ainsley muttered, pushing herself up. She sighed sadly, looking back at Sherlock for the first time since they left the flat. Her eyes were abnormally red. "Come on. We're nearly there."

Just as she promised, the hospice loomed before them in practically no time. It was nice, almost too nice, given the Boyd family's financial situation. The lobby was bright and airy, with plenty of natural light streaming in from the tall windows. The ceiling was arched to create a cozier atmosphere and the grey couches on either side of the room were new, most likely from a donor. The mosaic floor was kept spotless, as was the rich red rug and gleaming chandelier. It was almost like a movie set, but yet it was all so very real.

"I'm here to see Patrick Boyd," Ainsley announced at the check-in desk, smiling briefly at the nurse. "I'm his daughter, Ainsley."

"Of course," the nurse murmured sympathetically. "You can go right on up; he's in his room."

"Thank you."

Together, they jogged up the stairs. Ainsley had obviously been there countless times; she navigated through the hallways easily and waved at some of the attendants. Finally, she came to a stop in front of the last door in the hall and knocked gently.

"Dad?" she called, nudging it open. "It's me, Ainsley. I'm coming to visit and I..." She glanced at Sherlock. "I brought a friend."

The man in the bed turned his head, smiling from behind an oxygen mask. His still red hair was a harsh reminder of how young he still was, but his face made him look like he was a million years old.

"Ainsley!" he cried, pulling the mask so it didn't cover his mouth. "I'd give you a kiss if I could only get this damned mask off." He yanked at it harshly and Ainsley reached out to calm him down.

"Shh, Daddy," she soothed. "Let me help." Carefully, she maneuvered the mask over his head and helped him tuck a more convenient tube into his nose instead. "There you go."

"You haven't been here in a while," Mr. Boyd scolded. "But I see you've gotten yourself a boyfriend in the meantime."

Ainsley blushed, just like she had when Elsa made the same mistake. Yet Sherlock's reaction was entirely different than it had been. A few weeks ago, he found it amusing that anyone could think he was romantically attached to _anyone. _Now, he felt oddly at peace with the assumption. Almost like he wouldn't have minded if it were true.

His stomach tightened at that thought. It was ridiculous. It hardly mattered that he thought Ainsley was beautiful, or that she was the only person had ever helped him have fun without killing someone. He was married to his work. Making a friend who happened to be female didn't change that.

"He-he's, uh, not my boyfriend," she stammered to her father. "He just, uh... Really wanted to meet you."

"Arthur Nichols," Sherlock introduced himself, stepping forward. He assumed if Ainsley didn't want her sister knowing his identity, she didn't want her father to, either. Her grateful expression confirmed the guess. "It's excellent to meet you, Mr. Boyd."

"We're all adults here," Mr. Boyd shrugged. "Call me Patrick."

"Whatever you say, Patrick," he agreed.

"Arthur solves crimes," she told her father. He laughed heartily. Sherlock glanced between the two of them, unsure of the joke.

"I bet my Ainsley gets in the way of all your investigations, doesn't she?" Patrick chuckled. The girl in question flushed red. "It was her dream, you know. She used to make me read those Nancy Drew books to her every night so she could learn how to be a detective, too."

"Not _every _night," she mumbled, looking down.

"She hadn't mentioned it before," Sherlock smirked.

"And now, here she is: all grown-up and writing a mystery story herself." Sherlock's ear perked up.

"A _mystery _story?" he repeated, winking at her. Her face turned even redder.

_"Dad," _she whined.

"What?" he said innocently. "I'm just proud of you." She smiled softly.

"Thanks, Daddy," she breathed, leaning her head on his shoulder.

For a moment, everything was peaceful. Sherlock vaguely wondered if he should give them a moment alone. They were father and daughter, after all, and they might not have very many chances to see each other again. For the first time he wondered what it would be like if his father were still alive, and they were actually close.

Then the coughing started. Awful, noisy hacking that wouldn't stop. Ainsley rubbed her dad's back comfortingly, looking heartbroken herself. When it became clear the attack wouldn't subside, she looked straight at Sherlock.

"There's a remote with a red button on his bedside table," she informed him authoritatively. "Press it."

The second he did, nurses swarmed the room. Ainsley watched helplessly as they pushed various pills down her father's throat, tears welling in her eyes.

"Miss Boyd?" one nurse said nicely. "Perhaps it would be best if you let your father rest for a while."

"Oh. Right," she nodded. She looked over the nurses' shoulders to wave at her father. "Bye Daddy. I love you. I have to go now, but I'll be back soon, okay?"

Sherlock followed her silently out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street. Part of him wanted to tease her about wanting to become a detective, but he stopped himself. The timing of that comment would be 'a bit not good', as John would say.

Suddenly, Ainsley stopped short, ignoring the annoyed looks the other people on the sidewalk sent her. In slow motion, she turned to face Sherlock.

"Look, I know this isn't your thing," she managed, a single tear escaping. "But, you know, I kind of really need this right now, and can I just..."

And then she was hugging him. Her touch felt alien. Hardly anyone hugged him, not even John. Occasionally Mrs. Hudson would give him a motherly embrace, but it was never anything like this.

It didn't feel warm and gooey, like hugs were 'supposed' to feel. It felt awkward and sad and oddly enough, wet, due to Ainsley's sobs. People were starting to stare. If it had been anyone else, Sherlock would have thrust them off of him. But this was Ainsley, who sacrificed her own safety to help him track down Moriarty and worried endlessly about her older sister. Ainsley, who hated smoke and loved her cat and was writing an entire book on a typewriter. He couldn't just push her away. So instead, he wrapped his arms around her with incredible caution, like she might break if he squeezed too hard.

"Sorry," she sniffled, wriggling away from him. He ignored the illogical disappointment she felt. "That was just really hard for me."

"You don't have to apologize," Sherlock said without thinking. She smiled sadly at him.

"I guess we should get going, then," she suggested, plunging her hands into her jacket pockets.

Inexplicably, her brave face faded to one of shock and fear. Tentatively, she pulled one fist out of her pocket and uncurled her fingers. In the middle of her palm was a single slip of typewriter paper, bearing a second ominous message.

_Stop looking. You've already found me._

**A/N: DUN DUN DUN. Thoughts? As I said, I'm going on vacation for a few days so updates might be slower, but I'll still try to get some out. In the meantime, please please PLEASE review! **


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock's hard drive was overloading. For the first time in his life, he had too much to deal with, a feeling he was sure he did not like. His first order of business was to find the person behind the mysterious messages and ensure that they were locked up for as long as possible. As Ainsley had said, the sender had to be one of Moriarty's henchmen, and anyone involved with the notorious criminal had to be totally and completely destroyed. But oddly, Sherlock found himself fixated on a much more trivial matter: the matter of, well, Ainsley.

If you'd asked him a year ago, he would say that there was no way he could possibly feel anything remotely romantic for anyone. But a year ago, he also wouldn't have accepted a bet that said he could have fun. It was funny how little things like that changed. He didn't feel so different from the man he had been back then, and yet he undoubtedly was. By some fluke of nature, a bit of Arthur Nichols had stuck with him, even after he revealed his identity to Ainsley.

Still, that wasn't to say he _liked _her. Then again, how could he even know what he was feeling? He didn't have any past experience to compare it to. All he knew about love was what he had seen from John, and he definitely didn't want that. The last thing he needed was to become a lovesick puppy, completely blinded by his hormones. He was the world's only consulting detective, and he couldn't let anything get in the way of that.

That was the big question, of course: would Ainsley distract him from his work, or would she help him in it? After all, she'd been more helpful than he liked to admit lately. Maybe she wouldn't make him give up his lifestyle. Maybe she would fit into it perfectly, completing the intricate puzzle of his life.

He shook his head to clear it. This was all speculation, anyway. Her life was in Scotland and his was in England; they couldn't just relocate in order to be with each other. And this was just assuming she would feel the same way, which she probably wouldn't. How many times had she told him off for being unfeeling or rude? Why would she want to spend anymore time than necessary in that situation? At the end of the day, they simply wouldn't work together, no matter what they felt.

Once he'd come to that conclusion, he turned his attention back to the real case. Two notes, all somehow related to Moriarty. One was very coherent, while the other made no sense at all. He could tell next to nothing about the sender, due to the notes being typed. And since he was still virtually clueless about who was involved in the web of crimes, he couldn't even narrow down the possibilites. He felt ordinary when he couldn't figure things out, which he hated.

A determined look set on his face, he plucked the two notes off his desk to reexamine them. To his dismay, they only yielded the same results as last time. Which was to say, nothing.

Sherlock growled under his breath. This was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. He had nothing, and he wasn't going to find anything either. It was all useless.

Sighing, he picked up his phone to dial Ainsley's number. She could usually provide some distraction from his troubles. Since the second note arrived four days ago, she'd been oddly distant, spending more and more time at home with Elsa. He missed her. Even if they could never pursue anything beyond a friendship, he could still enjoy her company. He tugged at his hair impatiently, waiting for her to pick up.

"Hi," came her answer, after what seemed like an eternity. Sherlock smiled subconsciously.

"Hello."

"Have you found anything?" she demanded immediately after realizing who was calling.

"Not yet," he informed her, ignoring the fact that at the rate he was going, he probably would _never _find anything.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Well, in that case, I actually have to run. Elsa's due date is only two months away, so we're going out to dinner in like... 5 minutes." Part of him wanted to ask if they could really afford that, but he pushed the urge away. It wasn't his place to worry about her financial issues. Why should he even care?

"Of course," he said politely. "Sorry to have interrupted."

"Don't worry about it," she dismissed him sounding confused. "Are you... Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You actually used your manners," she explained. "So I can only assume there's been a terrible tragedy."

"I'm not _totally _awful," he defended. She laughed.

"Could've fooled me," she teased. "Anyway, I gotta go. I'll call you later or something, okay?"

"Sure," he agreed.

"Alright. Bye."

A harsh beep told him she'd hung up, and he felt strangely hollow. Maybe it was because he wished things could one day be different between them, or that he was finally realizing that he would be leaving soon and they likely wouldn't speak again. In any event, he found himself wanting a hug. Not just any hug, a hug like the one Ainsley had given him four days ago, at the hospice. And for some reason, he was terrified that he would never get a hug like that again.

It was almost like he knew what was about to happen.

**A/N: Not my best, but not too bad. Plus, I'm writing on an iPad. Next chapter's gonna be pretty crazy ;) Review please!**


	20. Chapter Nineteen

With each passing minute, Sherlock grew more and more restless. The air in his flat crackled with nervous energy and he must have paced the length of the room a million times before he settled on the couch. Briefly, he considered returning to his plan of shooting a peace sign in the wall, but he abandoned it quickly. While target practice was ridiculously fun, it wasn't exactly what he craved just then. He wanted mental stimulation; he wanted conversation; he wanted a friend; he wanted Ainsley.

But for some godforsaken reason, Ainsley had decided to spend the night out with Elsa. So her sister was pregnant. What was the big deal? In the immortal words of Jim Moriarty, _that's what people do. _They repopulate the earth. It was hardly a momentous occasion.

Besides, the two may have been related by blood, but Elsa wasn't nearly interesting enough to waste Ainsley's time. The bumbling mother-to-be was dim, unobservant, and just generally boring, while Sherlock's fiery assistant was brave and thoughtful and challenging. A woman like that deserved better than a small, pathetic life in a tiny flat in Edinburgh. She deserved something exciting and adventurous, something like the crime stories her father used to read her. Something like his own life.

Despite previously coming to the conclusion that it would never work, he listlessly imagined what it would be like if it did. Ainsley would like John, he decided. They were so alike, how could she not? And she would doubtlessly provide entertaining commentary on the continuing saga of Anderson and Donovan's quest to reach new heights of stupidity. Every night, the crime-solving trio could order Chinese takeout, which he would reluctantly eat at her insistence. Even though John would enjoy Ainsley's company immensely, he would never ask her out because she would be Sherlock's.

He was struck with a stab of yearning. The life he concocted in his head sounded so perfect. It only solidified what he already knew, deep down. Sherlock Holmes officially had a crush on Ainsley. There was no use denying it any more. She was beautiful and witty and smart, and he liked her. But, as he told himself only an hour ago, they weren't meant to be. They couldn't be. There were too many obstacles to overcome.

When his ringing phone snapped him out of his thoughts, he was tempted to ignore it. Whoever was calling him could wait. It was probably work, anyways, and he couldn't care less about that. He reached over to turn off the incessant to ringing, but the name flashing across his caller ID stopped him. _AINSLEY BOYD. _

"Hello, Ainsley," he answered smoothly. He wasn't in kindergarten - even if he liked her, it didn't mean he was going to act any differently around her.

"Oh my God, Sherlock," she responded, but something was off. Her breath was coming in short pants and he could plainly hear the distress in her voice. "You picked up, you picked up, thank God you picked up."

"Ainsley, what's the matter?" he demanded immediately. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast. Did caring about people mean you felt this way every time something went wrong?

"I'm such an idiot, Sherlock, _such _an idiot," she wailed. "_E.B.B. _The note meant E.B.B, not 'ebb'! E.B.B, as in _Elsa. Brenda. Boyd, _as in my sister, and oh my God, she's _pregnant _Sherlock, but now they've got her-"

"Who's got her?" he interrupted, not wasting any time comforting her. Just because he liked her the tiniest bit, didn't mean he was going to suddenly turn all touchy-feely. What mattered wasn't Ainsley's terror. What mattered was getting the facts.

"I-I don't know," she blubbered. "She had a doctor's appointment so we were supposed to meet at the restaurant for dinner, but when I got there, they said she'd already left with some man, but they'd left me a note, and I got it and all it said was 'You know where to find me', and I have to find her Sherlock, I have to, this can't be happening again..."

Sherlock fought back the urge to tell her to shut up. That would only make things worse. He needed to tap into the human side of his emotions and, for just one moment, be sensitive.

"We're going to find her, Ainsley," he promised gently, not realizing that he had said 'we' instead of 'you'. "But I need to think. And to do that you need to be quiet, alright?"

"Okay," she sniffled reluctantly.

_Think, _he ordered himself. _Think, think, think! _His mind whizzed at a million miles an hour. Ainsley got the first note after getting home from the bar, in her back pocket. Who had touched her back pocket that night? Who could have put it there?

In a flash, a obnoxiously snide face drifted into his mind. A face he had punched because it got too close to his second friend ever. _Sebastian. _Suddenly, everything started clicking together. Before Ainsley got the second note, they had been walking down a crowded street, where they didn't have time to see faces, but they did have time to hear voices. He recalled the voice of the person who bowled her over. It was Sebastian's, and he was mortified that he hadn't noticed until now.

All that was left was the location, and that was obvious. The one place they had actually met was the bar, so that was where he would be.

"The bar," Sherlock breathed in relief.

"The bar?" Ainsley repeated, making him realize he'd spoken out loud. "You figured it out, it's the bar I took you? Thank you, thank you, thank you Sherlock, I'm already on my way-"

"No, Ainsley, do not go anywhere until I get there," he nearly shouted. Images of John, laden with bombs, floated across his mind's eye. If this man was in cahoots with Moriarty (which he clearly was), he was beyond dangerous. Sebastian could kill Ainsley - _his Ainsley. _

He paused briefly at the thought. His Ainsley. It sounded... nice. Right.

"I'm nearly there; I have to go," she announced, shaking him out of his reverie.

"Ainsley, wait!" he commanded. "This man is dangerous-"

"This man has my sister," she snarled. "And I might not have been able to save my parents, but I'm sure as hell gonna save her!"

"Ainsley!" he tried again, but all that replied was the dial tone. Panic bubbled in his stomach. She was inevitably going on a suicide mission; he needed to stop her. This wasn't even about going back to Baker Street anymore, this was about saving the most unique woman he'd ever met.

Frenzied, he picked up his coat and gun and dashed downstairs, taking two steps at a time. The traffic was too bad to get a cab; he would have to run. Without missing a beat, he began sprinted down the sidewalk.

Before he even processed what he was doing, he was halfway to the bar.

**A/N: Sorry for the wait! As you know, I was on vacation. Unfortunately, that's probably what it will be like from now on, since I go back to school on Monday, but I'll try to churn out a couple more chapters tonight and tomorrow. **

**So a lot happens this chapter. Sherlock's owning up to his feelings and Ainsley's in trouble. (Props to everyone who guessed correctly about the meaning of EBB and the perpetrator!) Let me know what you think of it all by reviewing! ...Please? **


	21. Chapter Twenty

By the time Sherlock charged into the bar, people were already milling about, nursing pints of ice-cold beer. The atmosphere was light and carefree, and everyone was completely oblivious to the fact that somewhere in the building, a pregnant woman and her sister were likely being traumatized. Anger flared up in him at the stupidity of the entire human race. He could throw a body into the crowd and no one would notice anything out of the ordinary.

Pushing away his thoughts, he began his search for some kind of hidden door. He had no doubt Sebastian took his victims somewhere very secluded. But, seeing as she was nowhere to be seen, Ainsley had managed to find it, so it couldn't be too secluded.

That was when he saw it. A door hidden in the very back of the room marked 'STAFF ONLY'. No one was paying any attention to it, but it didn't look like it was locked or secured in any way. _Bingo. _

With renewed energy, Sherlock cast open the door and jogged down the stairs it revealed. Evidently the basement was used to store unneeded beers and liquors; the walls were lined with shelves of bottles. The lighting was horribly dim, but he was able to find his way without falling. Tripping wasn't an option - he needed to find Ainsley (and Elsa) as soon as possible.

"Ah, Sherlock. I was wondering when you'd drop in."

Sherlock pivoted to face the source of the voice addressing him. There he was, in all his glory: Sebastian. He looked slimy as ever. He grinned cruelly, bearing his uneven teeth.

"I assume you're looking for your little girlfriend?" he smirked. Smugly, he stepped aside to reveal a bound and gagged Ainsley, kneeling protectively in front of her unconscious sister. "She's alive, as you can see. But I don't know how long I can keep her that way." He paused. "However, unlike most criminals, Jim taught me some manners. I'm not a total barbarian. And who would I be to deny this lovely girl of her last words?" Theatrically, he strode over to the redhead and tugged the dirty rag off of her mouth.

"Such lovely hair," he continued before Ainsley could speak. As if she were a cat, he stroked her head gently. Wisely, she didn't comment. "It's a shame to have to kill her. I run a few businesses and she would be absolutely perfect for one of them. She'd attract so many customers." He winked at Sherlock. "You know what I mean, don't you? Or are you really as virginal as Jim always said?"

"Let her go," Sherlock ground out, a terrible mixture of jealousy and rage brewing in his stomach. People like Sebastian didn't deserve to touch her.

"If only I could," he sighed. "But alas... She's too smart for her own good. I can't risk her talking. So, my only option is to..." he dragged a nail across his throat and clicked his tongue sadly. "Slit her throat," he finished. He turned to Ainsley, grinning condescendingly. "Now, do you have anything you'd like to say before you die?" She breathed deeply.

"First, this isn't your fault," she said with remarkable clarity. "I made the choice to come here, no matter what you think. Second, I don't mind. I'll be okay. I might even see my mom, like we talked about at Edinburgh Castle." She smiled at him, ignoring the tears running down her face. "I only hope you get out, and go find John, because otherwise you'll be all alone here, and that- that's... You just don't deserve that.

"Which brings me to number three." She fidgeted in her ropes and looked away. "I care about you, Sherlock. And I'm sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but I'm going to die and I need you to know. I care about you, like... Like more than a friend. No matter what anyone says, you're a good person. I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life. And, um, I guess you already know all this because of you're deducting things, but I wanted to say it. So, there. I said it. I care about you."

Sherlock remained frozen. His heart was beating frantically, and not necessarily from adrenaline. This was what he wanted, but it was all so wrong. Ainsley couldn't die. Not before he'd hugged her and kissed her and did all the things couple do with her. She was his, and he couldn't let that go.

"Well?" Sebastian prompted obnoxiously. "Don't you have anything to say? Go on, Sherlock. Tell her. _Love is a weakness. _A weakness you don't succumb to."

He spared a glance at their captor but didn't reply. Instead, he confidently walked across the room, knelt in front of Ainsley and pulled her to him.

No matter what other people thought, Sherlock Holmes had kissed girls. But this kiss was different on so many levels. It felt right, despite being frenzied and scared. Their mouths moved together in perfect time and, cliche as it was, everything around them faded away. He didn't mind that he had to keep his hand firmly on Ainsley's back to keep her from toppling over. He hardly even minded that their first kiss was in front of a serial killer. The moment was too perfect to ruin with reality.

"Suffice to say I feel the same way," he murmured when they finally pulled away. He was oddly happy to notice her face was flushed.

"Glad to hear it," she breathed back, biting her lip.

"Oh my," Sebastian interrupted gaily. "Sherlock Holmes actually fancies my prisoner! Oh, this will make killing her so much more fun. But that will have to wait for a bit. It would only be fair if I tortured you both equally, so I may as well start with the whore." He pushed past Ainsley and grabbed Elsa by her dress. "Say goodbye to Elsa Brenda Boyd."

"She has nothing to do with this!" Ainsley begged desperately. "She doesn't even know!" When Sebastian made no move to drop her sister, her pleas grew louder. "Put her down, you sick _fuck! _She's having a baby; please put her down!"

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, still on his knees. "Don't give him a reaction; it's what he wants."

"I-I can't just let him kill my sister!" she protested furiously, attempting to wiggle out of her bonds.

"Ainsley," he whispered, looking directly into her eyes. "Trust me." She whimpered lowly but stopped screaming.

"This just can't be happening again," she said softly, mostly talking to herself. Sherlock didn't reply.

"Let's see," Sebastian mused, grabbing their attention once again. "How should I kill this one?"

"Don't have a sniper to do that for you?" Sherlock sneered.

"Oh, no," he chuckled. "You're confusing me with dear old Jim. And while the two of us were more alike than I'd like to admit, there was always one big difference between us: I don't mind getting my hands a little dirty." He yanked Elsa's head off the ground for dramatic effect and pulled out a pocket knife. "I'm afraid this will be a little messy," he warned. "With such a short blade, it can take a while to get anything done.

"Close your eyes," Sherlock told Ainsley. "This isn't something you'll want to see."

Satisfied that the criminal was too focused on his prey to notice anything else, Sherlock carefully reached behind Ainsley's back and began fiddling with the rope that bound her hands. With a ferocious yank, the knot unwound. Smartly, she didn't shift positions. If they attracted any attention to themselves, it would end in disaster. Hastily, he began working to free her ankles. The knot was tighter around them, but Sebastian had made the mistake of using a stretchier type of rope. Expanding it as large as he could go, he slipped the loop of rope over her feet.

Carefully, he extracted his gun from his inner coat pocket. He would have preferred to keep Sebastian alive in order to coax more information out of him, but he wasn't about to shed any tears if that were impossible. Smoothly, he slipped the gun into Ainsley's hands.

"When I tell you to, I want you to aim that gun at Sebastian," he muttered. "If at all possible, keep him alive, but if he tries to escape, don't hesitate to shoot him." Ainsley nodded in agreement, tightening her hands on the gun. Sherlock swelled in pride that she didn't back down from the challenge. _"One," _he counted quietly. _"Two... Three." _

In no time, Ainsley was on her feet. She whipped the gun around and trained it on Sebastian's forehead. The criminal's eyes widened in surprise and he pried his hands off of Elsa.

"I must say I'm impressed," he admitted, recovering from his shock. "I didn't think you had it in you to be a killer. But now I see why Jim picked you... You could have excelled in our field..."

"I'd shut up if I were you," she hissed.

Once Sherlock decided the situation was under control, he slid his phone out of his pocket. No matter how much it would hurt his pride, there was only one person to call.

"Hello?" an infuriatingly irritating voice answered.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted. There was a long silence on the other end.

"I take it you're alive, then."

"Oh, don't be daft," he sneered. "I thought at least you would have figured it out by now; of course I'm alive! And I need you to send me your top agents immediately. I have a criminal you'll want to interrogate."

"Of course," Mycroft agreed graciously.

"And send some medics, too," Sherlock added, thinking of Elsa.

"Medics? You never get hurt. Unless death has made you lose your touch?"

"They're not for me," he informed his brother gruffly. "Now do it."

_Thwack. _Suddenly a huge fist thumped against his skull. The room swam across his vision. His phone dropped out of his limp hand and shattered on the concrete ground. The last thing he managed to see was a horribly injured Ainsley, clutching her bloodied nose and howling his name. Then, everything went black.

**A/N: CLIFFHANGER! Don't hate me too much. After all, I wasn't even gonna make them kiss this chapter. The original plan was to have Ainsley get interrupted in the midst of her "last words" but I thought that would be too mean to all of you. Review please!**


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**A/N: Thought I'd throw a disclaimer in here since I haven't since, like... ever. So, I don't own Sherlock BBC. Only Ainsley, Elsa, etc. are mine. Also, quick note about this chapter: seeing as Sherlock's knocked out, it's gonna be all about Ainsley! Woo-hoo! Go Ainsley! Yaaaayyyy! (Too much excitement?) **

For the most part, Ainsley was accustomed to disappointment. She rarely got what she wanted; whether it was an education or her family's safety. Most of the time, she didn't even bother hoping for something good, and instead spent her time waiting for the inevitable catch. That way, she was never surprised when things went awry. She was virtually unmovable.

But that didn't mean she was any less horrified when she watched Sherlock Holmes drop to the ground limply.

Sherlock Holmes, who knew everything about her from a single glance. Sherlock Holmes, who was able to comfort a sobbing child without missing a beat. Sherlock Holmes, whose lips had been on her's only a little while ago. Sherlock Holmes, who trusted her to keep Sebastian at bay.

And now he was utterly unconscious, all because of her. All because she let herself get distracted and didn't notice her captor creeping forward, preparing to attack. At the memory, she held her inevitably broken nose gingerly. It was becoming harder and harder not to throw up at the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth, but she couldn't lose her focus again. Now, she didn't just have her sister to protect, she had her best friend too. If they both died because of her incompetence, she didn't know if she would be able to move on.

"You really should pay better attention," Sebastian chided her, smiling arrogantly. "As your dear friend Sherlock would say... Look around, Ainsley. Stop being so painfully oblivious."

Anger boiled in her belly, mostly because he was right. She was a total and complete moron. How could she not see the meaning of EBB? Or even ignore the fact that she was about to be pounced on by a criminal? Wishfully, she glanced at the gun that had been skewed across the room in their struggle. If only she could find a way to get to it... Sherlock had been calling his brother for help, so she had no doubt they would be rescued at some point. For now, she simply needed to stall.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded. In all honesty, she didn't care about the answer, but at least it would keep him talking instead of killing.

"What a silly question," he cackled. "It hardly matters. After all, you're going to be dead in only a few minutes."

"If you're so sure about that, what's the harm in telling me?" she challenged. "Unless you're worried I'll escape."

She was playing a dangerous game, but something told her Sebastian was stupid enough to play along. Maybe if she got him really, really worked up, she could distract him long enough to get the gun. Then, with a quick shot to the leg, he would be rendered incapable of moving, until the rescue squad came to take him away. Of course, she would rather put a bullet through his head and get it over with, but that wouldn't work. He had information on Moriarty that she and Sherlock needed desperately.

"You won't escape," he said surely, but his eyes faltered. Her stomach clenched in excitement. He was falling for it completely.

"Prove it," she shrugged.

_"I'm _in charge here," he snarled, curling his lip. Ainsley's mouth quirked up.

"I bet that feels great," she taunted. "I mean, after all those years being Moriarty's little puppet, it must be amazing to get your chance in the sun." Sebastian's eye twitched.

"I was never Moriarty's puppet," he growled.

"Oh, really?" she said airily. "So you liked doing everything he told you to? Interesting."

"I did what _I_ wanted!" he insisted.

"Okay, okay. I believe you," she caved. "Just tell me this: how come we only ever heard about Moriarty in the papers? Where were you?"

"I was good enough not to get caught."

"Maybe," she acquiesced. "Or maybe no one felt the need to catch you. Maybe you never did anything clever enough to matter."

"I matter!" he yowled, finally having had enough. He flicked out his knife and charged towards Ainsley. Running totally on adrenaline, she darted out of his way, sliding across the floor and latching onto the gun.

"Not anymore," she sneered, taking aim. Slowly, she backed him into the corner opposite Elsa and Sherlock. She wasn't going to screw up this time. This was her last chance, and she was going to make it count. The days of being a victim were long gone.

Sebastian looked like a deer in headlights. His eyes fixed on the barrel of the gun, widening to the size of saucers. Fear etched itself on his face, making him look more human than before. She felt her stomach squirm with guilt and breathed deeply. _He deserves this, _she chanted to herself. _He was going to do much worse_. Before she could change her mind, Ainsley curled her finger around the trigger and lined the barrel up with his knee. With a single bang, it was all over.

He collapsed immediately, shrieking with pain. His features were distorted with agony as he applied pressure on the wound. Warily, Ainsley glanced at the ceiling to make sure none of the people upstairs had heard anything.

"I'm sorry, but you made me do it," she whispered brokenly, more to herself than Sebastian. "I had to protect Elsa."

"You bitch," he spat, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming. "I didn't make you do anything! You _wanted _to; you enjoy this-"

"I don't," she swore softly, watching him writhe on the ground. "I really don't."

"Of course you do!" he shot back. "You enjoy solving crimes and playing detective with Sherlock Holmes, even though it's obvious he's just going to dump you and go back to England!" He recovered himself enough to look her directly in the eye. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't _love. _He's playing with you, don't you see? He likes feeling powerful, that's all-"

"Shut up!" she finally screeched. "Whatever is going on with me and Sherlock has nothing to do with you. And you'd do well to remember that I still have a gun."

"You wouldn't shoot," he said confidently.

"I would," she promised.

"I don't think so. Don't you remember, Ainsley? Your left hand twitches when you lie."

A tense silence followed. Lip trembling, Ainsley started counting down the minutes until Sherlock's brother sent help. Surely someone with Mycroft's resources could have tracked them down by now? Where were they?

"Ai-Ainsley?" a groggy voice interrupted. She whipped around to find her sister stirring.

"Elsa," she breathed. "You're awake."

"What's going on?" the pregnant woman croaked. "I just remember going to the restaurant, and some man making me go with him, and- oh my God, is that a gun?"

"Please, Elsie," Ainsley begged. "I can explain it all later, but for now you just have to trust me-"

"Is that Arthur Nichols? What's he doing here?"

"That isn't Arthur Nichols," Sebastian scoffed. "That's Sherlock Holmes." Elsa's face blanched.

"Sherlock Holmes?" she repeated dumbly. "The mad detective from the papers? Oh my God-"

"Elsa, please-"

"I'm going to die. I'm really, really going to die."

"Elsa!"

Dramatically, Elsa fainted back onto the concrete ground. Ainsley resisted the urge to run to her sister and kept the gun pointed at Sebastian. Painful as it was, maybe it was better if Elsa didn't see this. There was no way she would be able to handle it.

As Ainsley was pondering this, the music from upstairs stopped abruptly. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she didn't get her hopes up, not even when she heard the stampede of people evacuating the building. Only when the door was kicked open did she allow herself to imagine that someone was coming to get them.

Almost in slow motion, a squad of agents, each brandishing impressive-looking guns, ran downstairs and surrounding Sebastian. Directly after them came a band of medics, who immediately picked up the unconscious bodies and dragged them upstairs.

"It's alright, Miss," one of them comforted her. "You're safe now."

"Oh thank God," she murmured, before finally collapsing herself.

**A/N: What do you think of Ainsley's handling of the situation? Review please! **


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

**A/N: Second disclaimer in a row! Aren't I being responsible? Anyways, I don't own Sherlock BBC.  
**

**Now on to the story! (Sherlock's back this chapter!) **

In Sherlock's dreams, he found himself back in Baker Street. He was sitting next to John on the couch, taking tea from Mrs. Hudson, and, perhaps best of all, joking playfully with Ainsley. There were countless cases to be solved, but none that put them in any mortal peril, and the entire world knew that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud. People didn't necessarily like him, but he wasn't hated like he used to be. He was hardly even noticed. A blimp on the radar, left to his own devices, no matter how odd they may be.

And in the uncomfortable intermissions between his fantasies, he watched a montage of every mistake he had ever made. He wrestled with his unsolved cases, listened to that unfortunate old woman blow up at Moriarty's command, saw bombs strapped to John. He felt himself slipping hallucinogens into his best friend's cup, and teetering over the edge of St. Bart's roof. Finally, he saw Ainsley tied up in the basement of that pub, silent tears streaming down her face.

It was in the middle of that memory that he decided it was time to wake up. He'd had quite enough of sleep and was more than ready to take out Sebastian. Using every ounce of strength in his body, he slid his eyes open and took in his surroundings.

The walls were pure white; so clean they almost blinded his eyes. He was lying on a firm yet comfortable bed with his head propped up, and his arms and legs were attached to various monitors and bags of fluid. Men and women in light blue scrubs scurried around the room, murmuring to each other about statistics and data they'd collected. He was obviously in a hospital. _But that couldn't be right._

"Ainsley and Elsa," he forced out, frantically searching the room. A gentle hand pushed him back down.

"I would have thought you'd be more concerned about the criminal you managed to catch," a smooth voice remarked snidely. Sherlock's lip curled on reflex.

"You're not allowed to be in here, Mycroft," he scolded his older brother.

"You must be forgetting who I am," Mycroft replied arrogantly. "Besides, I only wanted to greet my newly resurrected brother properly. Can you blame me?"

"Where is Ainsley?" Sherlock growled, ignoring the question. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Again with the talk about that woman," he sighed. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a heart."

"Tell me, Mycroft."

"She's fine," he admitted finally. "Her only real injury was a broken nose, and she hardly felt it anyway. She was too hyped up on adrenaline to notice." Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I presume you caught Sebastian."

"Yes," Mycroft said evenly. "And your little friend was actually instrumental in preventing his escape, so I suppose she's not totally useless."

"Did you really think I'd befriend an imbecile?"

"Sherlock Holmes certainly wouldn't," he agreed. "But one can never be sure about Arthur Nichols."

Sherlock shifted his position so he didn't face his brother. People were always saying the distance made the heart grow fonder, but not in the case of the Holmes brothers. It was impossible for them to be happy to see one another. Being so alike, they only ever saw their own flaws in each other. Mycroft could pretend he cared as much as he wanted, but Sherlock knew he never would. He didn't mind, though. He didn't care either. It was just the way their family worked.

"Leave," he commanded after a while. Mycroft obliged silently. Only when he was confident his brother was gone did Sherlock allow sleep to conquer him once again.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, he was greeted with a much more pleasant sight. Ainsley was curled up in the chair beside his bed, slurping a coffee. She wore a fresh set of clothes: a comfy, cream over-sized sweater, a knit infinity scarf, and jeans. The blood had been cleaned off her face and she looked almost peaceful. In fact, if it weren't for the bandage strapped over her nose, he never would have believed she was in a fight with an armed and dangerous man.

"Ainsley," he greeted her, pushing himself up. She gave him a half-smile.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she responded, waving. Sherlock was pleased to notice that despite their kiss, it wasn't awkward between them. Instead, it was comfortable and carefree. (Well, as comfortable and carefree as could be expected, given the situation.)

"How's Elsa?" he managed. Her smile faded and he immediately felt his heart clench.

"She lost the baby," she told him softly, looking away. "The doctors said it was just too much stress for her body to handle. She was so far along that it had a face and everything. We're gonna have a funeral when she gets out." She paused, biting her lip. "And she's really angry. She doesn't understand why I didn't tell her the truth about you, you know." Her voice broke. "And she doesn't like me to be in the room with her right now, so... I had to come in here instead."

"That's silly," Sherlock commented before he could stop himself. "You couldn't have done anything to stop what happened to her."

"Sherlock," Ainsley chided him, shaking her head. "She lost her baby and the last memory she really has is of me holding a gun. She's confused and looking for someone to lash out at. And to be honest, I don't blame her for choosing me."

"Why?" he demanded. "It's not your fault."

"Elsa deserved to know what was going on," she insisted. "Looking back, not even I understand why I kept it from her. My parents didn't know about Moriarty either, and that didn't help them."

"You thought you were protecting her."

"But I wasn't," she shrugged.

"That's irrelevant," Sherlock snapped. "What's that expression again? Ah, yes. _It's the thought that counts." _Ainsley's hand curled around his and squeezed carefully.

"Thanks," she said sincerely. "You didn't have to say all that."

"I didn't?" he asked. "I thought it was my job to comfort you, considering I'm your boyfriend." He felt her hand freeze in his and looked over to see her mouth opening and closing in shock.

"B-boyfriend?" she sputtered, her face matching her auburn hair. Sherlock frowned.

"I thought that was what happened when two people agreed they both cared about each other," he pointed out. Ainsley smiled anxiously.

"Um, yeah," she gulped. "I guess, I just, well..." She laughed nervously. "I didn't think relationships were your thing."

"They're not," he said shortly. "But as you've proved that you're not half as infinitely boring as the rest of the female population, I think we may as well try."

"I can't decide if that was a compliment," she muttered, assessing his face carefully. He shrugged in response.

"Does it matter?"

"If it was an insult, yes."

"Then it was a compliment."

"You're infuriating," she pouted. He grinned.

"But you don't mind."

"No," she laughed. "I guess I don't."

**A/N: So they're a couple! I hope you thought Sherlock was Sherlock-y enough this chapter. It was pretty hard to write him and Mycroft, and I'm also concerned about the boyfriend part. I just figured he's so straight forward and oblivious to social conventions that he would just say it.**** As always, please please PLEASE review!  
**


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

To tell the truth, Sherlock was worried about Ainsley.

His concern surprised even him, but after a while it was undeniable. In the two weeks since the confrontation at the pub, she had grown more and more subdued, barely even speaking unless asked a direct question and often zoning out in the middle of conversations. Sometimes, he could hardly break her out of her periodic trances, and when finally did, she would only nod and agree with whatever he was saying. It scared him to see her so submissive.

And, since Sherlock Holmes didn't do fear, he quickly channeled his energy into a much more acceptable emotion: anger.

Of course, he wasn't angry at Ainsley herself. She couldn't be held responsible for the unfortunate turn of events. Instead, he trained his rage on the equally downcast Elsa.

No matter how much her doctors and therapists tried to reason with her, Elsa was intent on blaming Ainsley for losing her child. Every time her younger sister entered the room, she completely shut off, rolling into a protective ball and turning to face the wall. On the rare occasions she could be coaxed into speaking, she spat vicious insults at her sister and spewed accusations about broken trust. While Ainsley had originally shrugged off the bullets as the words of a depressed mother, it was clearly beginning to weigh on her.

It was funny how much could change in two weeks, Sherlock mused to himself as he watched her brew coffee. Since he'd been released from the hospital, Mycroft had set to work on securing the names of everyone involved with Moriarty from Sebastian. Apparently, he wasn't as much of a hardened criminal as he pretended; he broke and began offering up information after only four days in a government holding cell. As soon as the people he listed were dead or jailed, Sherlock would be free to return to his old life with John.

That was another problem. He couldn't decide exactly how he felt about leaving Scotland. Obviously, he was looking forward to seeing John and Mrs. Hudson again. And yet there were downsides to the plan; namely, leaving Ainsley. In practically no time, she had become the first person he cared about romantically, and he wasn't quite ready to let that go. They could always try a long-distance relationship, but realistically, there was no way it would work. The only feasible option was to break up, and he certainly didn't want that either.

"Did you want some?" she asked him from his kitchen, distracting him from his thoughts. She held up a mug of coffee. "There's plenty extra."

"Two sugars," he told her simply. He at least expected her to roll her eyes, but she only nodded and plopped two cubes into his mug. In a rush, he was reminded of his anger towards Elsa. Yes, she'd lost a baby and it was all very sad. But the rest of the world didn't just go away.

"She's getting out tomorrow," Ainsley murmured, curling up next to him on the couch. He didn't have to ask who she was talking about.

"Excellent," he responded with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. She punched him halfheartedly.

"Be nice," she commanded. "I don't even know why you hate her so much."

"She's behaving childishly," he explained shortly.

"When you lose a baby, you can judge," she snarled back. Despite the cruelty she was being treated with, she was determined to protect her sister until the end.

"Exactly," he sniped. "She _lost _a baby, she didn't become one."

"Sherlock," Ainsley warned. "Drop it. I mean it." He frowned, but obeyed begrudgingly.

"It's just not fair to you," he grunted.

"Since when was life fair?" she sighed. "Anyways, I have to start making arrangements for the baby's funeral. And talking to the insurance people..." She rubbed her face anxiously. "It's going to be a long week."

"Anyway I can help?" he offered sensitively. She smiled softly.

"'Fraid not. I'm just gonna have to go it alone for now."

"You're not alone," he pointed out. "I'm here."

"Yeah, I guess so," she smiled, and then rolled her eyes. "That is, until you go back to being Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire."

"I'll be sorry to go," he lied.

"No, you won't be," she contradicted him breezily. "But that's okay. It's home for you. I mean, I wouldn't give up Edinburgh for London, so why should you?"

Sherlock stayed silent, but felt oddly hurt by her statement. His sadness didn't make sense. He would never expect her to give up the place she grew up in. So why was he secretly wishing she would?

* * *

The next day, he didn't see Ainsley at all. She was occupied with caring for her sister (or trying to) and planning a funeral for an unborn child, so it was understandable that she couldn't come over. But that didn't make Sherlock feel any better about it.

He liked the days when Elsa was still in the hospital, and they lounged around his flat lazily. Even when Ainsley seemed sad, they still found a way to have fun. And the niggling knowledge that soon, everyday would be like this, made tolerating his loneliness even harder. That being said, he nearly jumped for joy when his phone rang.

"Hello," he practically shrieked into the receiver. A calm, collected voice answered him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted. "Were you expecting a call?"

"No," he muttered, his excitement level dropping rapidly.

"Are you sure? Because it would seem you've grown quite close to Ainsley Boyd," his brother pressed.

"I don't see how it's any of your business, but yes, I have," Sherlock admitted. "Now what is it?"

"All of Moriarty's henchmen are dead," Mycroft announced, sounding as close to happy as he ever would. "You're free to return home." After receiving no answer, he continued. "I'll notify John directly."

"No, don't," Sherlock stopped him. "I want to tell him myself."

He knew how it would look if his callous older brother just casually mentioned he was alive to his best friend, especially after watching him mourn after the 'suicide'. The chances of John welcoming him with open arms were already slim, and he wasn't about to jeopardize them further. And he didn't need a degree in psychology to know that some things were better said face-to-face.

"As you wish," Mycroft obliged. "I'll send you plane tickets later, shall I?"

"I'm quite capable of booking them myself, thank you," Sherlock sneered. "Now if you don't mind, I have things to do."

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

* * *

When Ainsley dropped by the following day, he couldn't think of what to tell her. Despite spending all night preparing an explanation, he was completely dumbfounded. No matter how hard he tried, no words came out of his lips. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was speechless.

So instead of saying anything, he simply kissed her harder than usual and hugged her a little bit tighter than before. She reciprocated the affection, without quite understanding it, and left, still completely oblivious to what was going on. And although he knew it would be wrong, he almost wished he could not tell her, and just disappear instead. That would be much, much easier than confronting reality.

**A/N: Kind of a melancholy chapter, but the next one will be (kinda) happier. **

**In other news, this story is winding down. While this is obviously incredibly depressing, I'm happy to announce that there WILL be a sequel after it's over (probably called The Life of a Resurrected Man because I'm not as creative as I pretend)! So, don't be too sad! And, as always, review!**


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

Exactly one week later, Sherlock found himself standing outside a graveyard in his best suit. At Ainsley's insistence, he was attending the funeral of Elsa's child. And, most likely, it would double as the funeral of his first true relationship.

He still hadn't told his girlfriend about Mycroft's phone call, and now time was running short. Despite maintaining he would make the arrangements himself, Mycroft was constantly urging him to go back to London, calling him nonstop and even quitting his job for him. It was extremely frustrating and there was only one way to make it stop. Sherlock had to come clean and start packing up his flat.

In his defense, he hardly would have been able to tell Ainsley if he wanted to. All week, she'd been escorting her sister all over the city, taking her to therapy sessions and doctor's appointments. When she wasn't busy doing that, she was on the phone with insurance agents and funeral directors. In the little free time she was left with, she practically passed out. Even when she found time to visit Sherlock, he would often find her napping on his couch. Not that he minded, of course. She looked oddly peaceful when she slept, and he would occasionally sit next to her and flip through the newspaper, hunting for a fascinating story.

Now, though, there was no avoiding it. He couldn't keep putting his life on hold because of a fleeting relationship. He would have to tell her the truth.

"Thank you for coming," she murmured to him gratefully while they trudged through the damp graveyard grass. The procession consisted solely of them, Elsa, the pall-bearer, and the priest. No one else was invited. The only other person the grieving mother wanted there was her father, and that was impossible.

"I didn't think I had a choice," he observed wryly. She smiled, but sobered quickly.

"Really, though," she whispered, lowering her voice so they wouldn't be heard. "I know you and Elsa haven't been getting along lately, but I think this will be good for her. You know, give her some closure, help her see that you're not the bad guy after all..." He nodded.

"I understand," he assured her. "Although I don't think I will ever comprehend your total dedication to her welfare."

"I don't expect you too," she excused him. "Your brother's abominable, so you don't get sibling relationships. It makes perfect sense, really."

"You make me sound like a child," he accused her.

"You kind of are," she shot back, holding back a chuckle. "Now we need to shut up, or I'm going to start laughing. And we can't giggle at a funeral. _Especially _not at my niece's funeral."

"It's alright for you to giggle," he countered. "Since the child never left the womb, you don't have any kind of tangible attachment to it. It's only natural for you to have recovered from the shock three weeks later."

"Maybe, but we're here for my sister," she insisted. "Not for me."

They continued their walk in silence until the entire party halted in front of a pitifully small hole in the ground. Slowly, the pall-bearer lowered the miniature coffin into the ground, causing Elsa to let out a strangled moan. Ignoring her distress, the priest began the traditional funeral psalm.

"The Lord is my shepherd," he recited solemnly. "I shall not want..."

_Oh, how wrong that was. _

* * *

The trip back to the Boyds' flat was awkward, to say the least. As a sort of apology, Mycroft sent a car to take them home, and all three mourners had to squish themselves in the backseat. Elsa, who was still determined to be difficult, refused any words of comfort and spent the ride staring longingly out of the window. Sherlock, on the other hand, passed the time by mentally rehearsing what he was going to say to Ainsley. He planned every last detail: where he would tell her, and when. If anything went wrong, his whole scheme would collapse.

After an eternity, the car pulled up in front of their building. Biting her lip to keep from crying, Elsa slid out of the car and stepped onto the pavement. She stared straight ahead, fighting to stop her chin trembling. She was doing a good job of it, too, until Ainsley reached out and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Immediately, she broke down. Forgetting three weeks' worth of hatred, she flung herself into her sister's arms and wept. Uncomfortably, Sherlock averted his eyes from the tender scene. There were moments that were too personal to be shared with people outside of the family, and this was one of those times. Struggling to be helpful, he held open the door as Ainsley ushered her sister inside.

As soon as they entered the flat, the sisters retreated into Elsa's room, where they stayed for at least forty more minutes. Sherlock settled himself on the couch, petting Lucinda absentmindedly. He listened to Elsa's fading sobs and Ainsley's gentle murmurs, for once not thinking of anything but what he was doing at that exact moment. Eventually, Elsa's breaths evened out and Ainsley slipped out of the room.

"You didn't have to stay," she told him apologetically, straightening her plain black shift. He gave her a tight smile.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about something," he began. She inhaled nervously.

"Yeah, um, me too," she added, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

"I'll go first," he decided. Most couples would go through the whole 'you go - no, _you _go' shenanigan, but he really didn't see the point. They both had something to say, and they were both getting a chance to speak. What did it matter who went first? (Then again, it might be a bit awkward having a conversation after they both knew things were over between them.)

"Last week, I received a call from Mycroft," he explained. "He informed me that everyone Sebastian named as an associate of Moriarty's has been killed. There is no longer any danger in being Sherlock Holmes, and I am free to return to England." He glanced at her warily to gauge her reaction. Her face was totally blank; she only watched him patiently. "I have plans to go back some point next week. As we discussed this previously, I am confident you will understand the situation, and for that I am very grateful." He hesitated before adding one more thing. "I honestly do wish there were a way for us to stay together, but I can't abandon my life."

He straightened his blazer, signalling he was finished with his speech and she was now free to reply. Bracing himself, he mentally prepared for a meltdown. She was already in a fragile state because of the funeral, so there was no telling how this would affect her. And then, as usual, she completely surprised him.

He expected her to cry. He expected her to shout. He did _not _expect her to laugh.

But laugh she did. She threw her head back in glee, clapping like a seal. Her foot popped off the couch as she spread out like a starfish. He observed her through narrow eyes. Perhaps all this business with the baby had affected her more seriously than he thought. Maybe she had really lost it.

"Oh God, Sherlock, you should be a lawyer," she gasped in between bouts of laughter. "I mean, really, you act as though someone were dying. It's only _England." _

"But we have to end... this, if I'm in England and you're in Scotland," he said, perplexed.

"What, and you think I couldn't survive without you?" she sniped. He looked away, flustered. Of course he thought she could survive, but wasn't it natural to be upset over the end of a relationship? Noticing his bewilderment, Ainsley put a comforting hand on his arm. "I'm only kidding, Sherlock. I would miss you very much, really."

"Would?" he repeated, now more confused than ever.

"Yes, would," she confirmed. "And if you you just exercise a little patience, I can tell you what I mean by that."

He nodded for her to continue.

"Well, before the accident, my dad signed up for this additional insurance plan. You know, from a private agency. It was so we could get care quickly if we ever got sick or something. It worked like it works in America. But after the accident, we still only had enough money to get him treated in Edinburgh, even though there was a program in London with better facilities for him.

"Anyways, he made me keep paying for the extra insurance, because he was terrified something would happen to Elsa or me and he wouldn't be able to help. It's part of the reason we were so broke. But the good thing is, now that something horrible has happened, we have a ton of insurance money to take care of us. More than we need, really."

Sherlock didn't say anything, despite having a vague idea of where this all was going.

"When we were at the hospital recently, I ran into one of Dad's old doctors. He asked me if I would ever consider moving my father to London now that we could afford it. I said no, because to be honest my dad hasn't got that long left, and I didn't think it would be worth it to put Elsa through that big a move." She paused dramatically. "Then I talked to her therapist."

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

"She told me that she believes it would do Elsa good to move. Apparently staying in this area would only remind her of... you know. So obviously I revisited the idea of moving my dad to London and I took a look at our finances."

"What did you find?" he asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. Ainsley smiled.

"I think you know," she taunted.

"Tell me anyways." She leaned close to his face.

"I'm coming with you," she whispered teasingly.

Without thinking, he pulled her into a kiss. She laughed lightly into his mouth, before returning the kiss enthusiastically. After all, who could blame him for being happy? He was getting the best of both worlds. He would be in England with both John _and _Ainsley, solving crimes like he used to. For once, everything in Sherlock Holmes' life would be perfect.

"Oh, and Elsa's coming too."

(Well, _almost _perfect.)

**A/N: AHHHH! I'M S EXCITED AND I'M THE ONE WRITING THE STORY. So I'm thinking I'm gonna have an epilogue and then the sequel, which will take place at 221B Baker Street! Review for the last real chapter, please!**

**P.S. I apologize if I botched UK insurance policies. My understanding is that there's national healthcare, but you have the option to supplement that with privately bought insurance. Again, sorry if I messed it up. Would it make it better if I said it was all for the sake of fiction? **


	26. Epilogue

Sherlock never liked airplanes, especially not since the Irene Adler debacle. He preferred to travel by train or car, where he wasn't so isolated. The way he saw it, planes trapped him in the same space for hours at a time. Even if he desperately wanted to get off, he couldn't. Unless he was having a heart attack, he could only wait.

One would think traveling with Ainsley would quell some of his anxiety. If she was there to entertain him, the plane ride couldn't be so horrible. But traveling with Ainsley also meant traveling with twice the amount of baggage, a cat, and Elsa.

The former mother-to-be had become slightly more tolerable in the past week. She was no longer hostile to her sister, and she even behaved civilly around Sherlock. This alone made her immeasurably more likable. On the downside, her anger had given way to a bottomless pit of despair. When she wasn't crying, she was sniffling. When she wasn't sniffling, she was staring off into space, looking melancholy. Comforting her was a full-time commitment. You could spend countless hours rubbing her back and whispering soothing words, but if you left for a single moment, all your efforts would be wasted.

"These past few weeks have just been really hard," the woman in question blubbered as they waited to board the plane. Sherlock bit back a sarcastic remark.

"I know," Ainsley responded reflexively. "But I think this is going to be really good for you. London's going to be so nice - isn't it, Sherlock?" She sent her boyfriend a pointed look.

"Oh, yes. London's lovely this time of year," he said brightly. "All that rain." Elsa furrowed her brow and Ainsley glared at him.

"The rain doesn't matter," she backtracked, turning to face her sister again. "Think of all the fun stuff we'll do. Dad's already there, and _oh, _we can go on that huge Ferris wheel!"

"The London Eye," Sherlock muttered, only to be ignored by the sisters.

"I really am sorry for being so gloomy all the time," Elsa whimpered, wiping her eyes. "I must be such a bother."

"Ye-"

_"No," _Ainsley said definitively before he could finish. "It's no bother at all; I'm completely here for you."

"I know," Elsa nodded. "Thank you."

Despite himself, Sherlock smiled. Elsa may have been a bumbling moron, but Ainsley loved her, and it hurt her when they fought. Seeing her reunited with her sister made him happy, even if it was a bit irritating. Besides, she was much more fun when she was in a good mood.

"Now boarding British Airways flight 1435," an almost robotic-sounding voice announced. The trio stood in unison and handed their tickets over to the flight attendant. Once they were sent through, Elsa almost immediately passed out. It would seem grief made her ridiculously exhausted; she was almost always sleeping.

"Are you excited?" Sherlock asked Ainsley quietly. She grinned.

"Of course I am," she answered. "Are you excited to get rid of _this?" _She tugged at his still-blond hair.

"Immensely," he sighed. "It will be good to be Sherlock Holmes again." She grunted in acknowledgement and continued playing with his hair.

"It will be weird seeing you with brown hair," she mused.

"Is that bad?"

"Nah," she assured him. "Not bad, just... odd."

"I suppose it will be." He looked over at her, changing the subject. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"We'll probably check into a cheap hotel for a few nights while I go hunting. Why?"

"No reason," he shrugged, but all the while he was formulating an absolutely brilliant plan.

At the very back of his mind, he remembered 221C Baker Street: an okay-sized flat right below his. Since Moriarty had planted the pair of sneakers there, he'd installed cameras, but now that Moriarty's entire circle was gone, what would be the harm in renting it out again? Mrs. Hudson wouldn't charge too much, he was sure. At least, not if he asked nicely. It would suit the Boyd sisters perfectly and be extremely convenient.

"Ainsley," he began suddenly. "Would you mind if a flat was a bit damp?" She scrunched up her face, thinking.

"I guess it would have to depend," she told him after a moment's hesitation. "You know, if it was nice, I guess it would be okay. We could always get work done."

"Splendid," he enthused.

"Have you got something in mind?" she prodded warily. He snorted.

"Don't look so scared," he scolded. "You'll love it." He paused, then added, "We're going to be neighbors."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our final destination of Heathrow Airport, local time 11:42 AM. When exiting the aircraft and taking your bags from the overhead compartments, please be careful as items may have shifted during our flight. Thank you for flying with British Airways and we hope you enjoy your stay in London, or where ever your travels may take you," the flight attendant announced about an hour and a half later. Sherlock grinned. He was finally,finally back.

He followed Ainsley and Elsa into the airport, fighting the urge to start jumping up and down. Soon he would see everyone from his old life again. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Donovan and Anderson. And of course, John. His first and best friend.

His face nearly broke from smiling. He tried his best to control himself, but he couldn't hide his pleasure when the cabbie asked where to take them.

"221B Baker Street," he ordered confidently. "I'm going home."

**A/N: Ahh! So, that's it! That's the end! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, followed, favorited, etc.. It really does mean the world to me. Hopefully, you'll all be reading the sequel as well, so I'll post all the details on here when it's up. **

**Now, you know what I'm gonna ask... One last review?**


	27. Sequel Posted

**A/N: Hey guys! Just wanted to let you know that I posted the prologue to The Life of a Resurrected Man. Obviously, I can't put the link on here, but you should find if you go to my page. Thanks again for your support :) **


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